


My Pictures of You

by 72reasons



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Angst, Bisexual John, Blow Jobs, Case Fic, Cocaine, Dirty Talk, Drug Use, Fashion AU, Frottage, Gay Sherlock, Hand Jobs, Human Trafficking, I love them so much guys, Implied past creepy behavior by men towards Sherlock, John is injured in Afghanistan, Kidnapping, M/M, Model!Sherlock, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Oral Sex, POV John, POV Sherlock, Past Jolto, Past Viclock, Past Warstan, Photo Shoot, Photographer!John, Photography, Pining, Rimming, bad mary, dancing in the kitchen, fashion - Freeform, war zone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-29
Updated: 2019-04-05
Packaged: 2019-04-20 11:55:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 50,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14260422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/72reasons/pseuds/72reasons
Summary: John Watson, a photographer, gets an assignment to shoot gorgeous, young fashion model, Sherlock Holmes. He feels an instant connection, but Sherlock uses drugs and has an old friend who's just landed himself in a lot of trouble. When Sherlock comes to John for help, he reluctantly agrees. Angst, past loves, and insecurities threaten to end their budding romance, but ultimately love and trust wins out.





	1. James

High-caliber bullets hit closer and closer to where John was holed up in an unsecured building. American and British troops had increased their numbers on the ground over the past few months and there was an operation, led by the Afghans, to oust the Taliban from a nearby city stronghold.

John wondered how on earth he managed to get himself so turned around. But just as soon has he had the thought, he also knew the answer. The answer was 6 foot 3, 13 and a half stone, blue-eyed, blonde, and John’s current addiction. The answer was currently barking orders over the radio. The answer’s name was Major James Sholto.

“Get us the fuck out of here!” James shouted. “Send air support. Now!”

John had his camera in one hand and James’ knee in the other. They were not looking at each other, but John was reluctant to sever physical contact.

xxx

They had met when John was shooting a wedding in Kabul. Well. Not the wedding exactly. He had hidden on a rooftop with his longest telephoto lens. The groom’s father was the highest ranking General in the Afghan army. One of the wedding guests, the general’s life-long best friend, was a high-ranking Operative for Al Qaida. John photographed the General and the Operative for an hour. He captured them them shaking hands, holding hands, sharing smirks and smiles, hugging, laughing, and generally looking like they were having the best time of their lives. John supposed he was biased by his own personal preferences, but it sure seemed to him that the two men shared more than one heated gaze when they thought no one was watching. John knew those photos would interest quite a few nations, and not to mention bring in top dollar.  

John was almost done on the rooftop when he heard quiet but quick footfalls coming closer. He whirled around, dropping his camera into the bag beside him, shielding it from view with his body. His hands shot up, he widened his eyes, the corners of his lips went up slightly which made his face the perfect picture of innocence.

John saw James quickly running towards him, bent low at the waist, with hands up placatingly. John pointed to his press badge and mouthed soundlessly, “Press.”

James nodded and came to sit next to John behind the cover of the low wall.

James held out his hand, “John Watson?”

John could not hide his surprise, nor could he ignore the gorgeous powerful man in front of him, holding out his hand in invitation. He nodded and shook the man’s hand.

“James Sholto. Murray told me you’d be here.”

John raised his eyebrows, “Murray?”

“We’ve worked well together in the past. I am hoping that you and I can be friends,” he smiled.

John was dazzled. He was intrigued. It was highly unusual that a Major in the British Army would seek out a journalist of any kind.

They left the roof together quietly and walked to a nearby cafe for small glasses of sweet, hot tea. James asked John to work with him and his men to apprehend the two men John had photographed, and turn them over to the Afghan army for prosecution. It was a long-shot that the Afghans would jail or execute one of their own, but the Major had orders to fulfill and a moral duty to banish corruption.

John couldn’t say no. James was too fast, too much. One long look over tea and they knew. They walked briskly from the cafe to the hotel and fell into bed straight away. It was intense and glorious and hot as hell. James loved to envelop John from the front or behind. He wrapped his huge arms and legs around him, cradling John’s much smaller frame. John loved feeling covered, smothered, surrounded by James with his rock-hard thighs, forearms, abdomen, and enormous cock.

They fucked. Then they worked. Then they fucked again.

It had only been two weeks, but it was the most intense relationship either of them had ever had. John felt like he was desperately in love with the Major, but he convinced himself it was too soon. It was the war. The adrenaline. It was the way James smelled. They had chemistry - gorgeous, smoking hot, sexual chemistry. But it couldn’t last so John made sure he was present, feeling everything. He engaged full-on with each moment as it happened.

Their plan included John, James, and James’ unit traveling to the village where the General and the Operative grew up. The unit would administer medical care to the locals, while an elite group of men and women would surprise the General and Operative where they were hidden in a room above the grocer.

Unfortunately, their targets knew of the plan beforehand. The General and Operative were not even in the village when the local Taliban engaged James' unit in a quick-paced and deadly gun battle.

xxx

John’s shoulder was on fire and his arm hung limply at his side. He could see that James was shouting but he couldn’t hear it. His camera was so heavy. He opened his hand and it dropped away. A vague feeling of loss and unease was alleviated when he looked at James. He was holding John’s face in his massive hands, blue eyes crinkling with a forced smile. John smiled back and whispered his name.

“Be quiet, John. Please,” he said, “They’re coming. Help is coming.”

“You…” It was extremely difficult to speak. John was tired. Trying to fight off the looming blackness, he said, “Get out. Get your men out. Leave me.”

“I’m not leaving you," he said fiercely, "I’m not leaving any of you.”

John closed his eyes and his last disjointed thoughts were about James. James needed to get his men out. James needed to deny he knew John. James needed to keep himself safe.

Skin. Sweat. Bliss. Blue eyes and clever ideas.

James.

xxx

He woke up alone in a Kabul hospital. He spent several days asking after James and his men, but frustratingly little information was forthcoming. John was not supposed to be present at the operation. His suspicion was that James had somehow gotten him out, quietly and unofficially. John Watson was a ghost, omitted from the record.

Despite the seriousness of his injury, despite the pain, despite his uncertainty about his own career, his thoughts never wandered too far from James.

He had lost everything but his phone and his camera. Both had been recovered from where he’d been shot. He checked his phone obsessively for the first few days, but hearing nothing had dampened his enthusiasm for it.

Ten days later he got an e-mail from an unknown address. It simply read _Four men lost. I was not injured. My discharge pending. You will be safe in London. I’m sorry. You were the best part of it all. Goodbye._

Tears ran down his face. They had failed. Good men had died. James lost his career. He could only imagine how devastated James must be. He tried writing back but his short reply predictably bounced back immediately.

He wanted to talk to him, wanted to hold him. He wanted to comfort him and tell him that he was right and good and that everything would be all right. With a black pit sinking from his heart deep into his stomach, he knew he would never see James again.  

xxx

The call was from Mike Stamford, an editor he’d known years ago.

“I heard you were looking for work. Can you come to New York?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am [onesmallfamily](http://onesmallfamily.tumblr.com) on Tumblr, please come by and say hello.


	2. First Impressions

This was not Afghanistan. This was New York City. It was oddly refreshing. New Yorkers tended to be direct, creative, judgemental, and dressed all in black. He fit right in with these brusque people, though few would know it.

Back home in London he could hide behind his non-threatening, eternally polite English persona. By creating a self-effacing, likable exterior, people didn’t realize that he had trained with the Israeli army and knew how to disable several threatening armed people, by himself, all at once. Or how to kill a person with one finger. Yes, one very well-placed, well-timed finger. John Watson may be a fashion photographer now, but he was still a deadly weapon in a cardigan.

John preferred to work without an assistant but when his agent Mike pushed Billy on him, he couldn’t really say no. Billy was tall with greasy hair and dark circles under his eyes. At least he was English.

They met at a flat in Brooklyn. It was small but with gorgeous light and an exposed brick wall. When Billy showed up John’s brain supplied, _tired, drugs, tall, no threat, handler_.

That last word was all that mattered. It didn’t matter that he was on drugs. John had been in the fashion world for enough months to have seen some things. He’d seen people half off their arses and still function professionally. So if Billy could handle the model and keep the light meter calibrated, then John was happy.

John had just set up the fill lights when the door flung open and a very tall young man walked in. He was dressed in a worn, dirty t-shirt, jeans, black boots, and a beautifully tailored almost-black overcoat.

He was fucking gorgeous. _Ah, the model then._ His cheekbones jutted from his face, his lips were impossibly full and pink, and his eyes...what?...his eyes were too light for a man with such dark curls. He never stopped moving, swishing his coat about, fingers fidgeting, rapidly blinking as he took in the space.

“Hello, I’m John Watson, the photographer. That’s Billy.” He stuck out his hand to shake the model’s hand.

The model assessed him with grey ( _no blue, no green, no grey_ ) eyes. His eyelids narrowed but he did not extend his hand.

“John,” he said, voice rumbling deeply. John was unsurprised to hear a British accent. Models came from all over the world to work in New York.

The model quietly observed him. His eyes jumped away from John to stare down at his own body. “How and where do you want me?” The model’s tone was almost innocent, but the words were laced with the double meaning of a young beautiful lad who had been manipulated in unsavory ways.

“What’s your name?”

He walked around the room then paced rapidly back and forth in front of the windows. He answered, “Sherlock Holmes.”

“May I call you Sherlock?”

Luminescent eyes rolled, “Of course.”

“All right. Can I get you some water?” John indicated a small bag in the corner where he’d stashed a few bottles.

“No, I don’t think you can offer me what I need.” He didn’t quite sneer, but it was clear that he was not impressed with John’s politeness. John was not about to “offer him what he needed,” or what this young addict _thought_ he needed. He didn’t need more...cocaine, John guessed...he needed sleep and some food.

_Ok then. Have it your way._ This man was beautiful and John knew he was going to be stunning in the photographs, but he’d had just about enough of the strung-out hyperactive child that stood before him.

He had a voice. A particular way of speaking, like the Majors with whom he’d spent so much time. “Take off your coat. Stand here,” he pointed at a spot near the windows.

Sherlock stilled, staring at John's stern face. He responded beautifully, quickly shedding the heavy coat and scrambling to stand as directed.

“Good. Beautiful. Thank you.”

Sherlock stared at John, both hands tightening into fists.

“Can you relax? We're going to start now.’

Sherlock looked at him, scowled actually. He looked like he was trying to figure out a terrifically difficult puzzle. After a moment, his face relaxed, a smug expression took over his lovely features, and he crossed his arms.

“Something wrong?” John asked.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“What?”

“War photographer, hurt badly in a secret operation right after the Reuters journalists. You were shot in the…right?...I’m not sure...shoulder. You weren’t supposed to be where you were and you were going to get someone important to you in trouble. Getting shot was inconvenient like that. You were snuck out of the war zone. You left the country, rehabbed in London or the States, and reinvented yourself as an edgy fashion photographer.”

John looked at him, stunned. “You looked me up.”

“Is all of that public knowledge?”

“No.”

Sherlock smirked as if to say _Well?_

“You were mostly correct.”

“Mostly?”

“Yep.”

“What did I get wrong?” he said quietly. He seemed smaller somehow, seeking John’s approval.

John just smiled, loving Sherlock’s full attention on him.

“What?” Sherlock asked, irritable again.

“Left shoulder,” John smiled a large genuine grin. How had this stupidly exquisite creature seen him so completely?

Sherlock hummed thoughtfully, then smiled, “So, should we begin?”

“I think so, Sherlock Holmes. You are looking seriously beautiful in this light and my camera can’t wait.”

Sherlock smiled a small, shy grin, “I’m yours for the taking.”

John just stared, wondering if this young model, clearly still high, understood just what he was saying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter (in its previous draft) also appears in my compilation of ficlets [A Small Family](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7946890/chapters/18168922).


	3. Cravings

“Over here.” 

Sherlock walked over to where John’s head-tilt indicated. 

“Take off your t-shirt.”

Sherlock looked at John, eyes narrowed. His voice had so far commanded Sherlock to do his bidding without question. But Sherlock was growing immune to the tone every passing second. He stopped short of where John had wanted him and simply stared at John with arms folded. 

“It has a stain. There. And there,” John said, pointing. 

“These photos are for my look book,” Sherlock countered. His manager had told him that they needed headshots. His book was full of photos of him half, or even fully, nude.

“Well,” John said, in an imitation of a patient man, “All right, I guess you’re going for the creepy goth blood-stains-on-my-t-shirt vibe. Not sure who the potential client is, but it’s not my career.”

Sherlock just rolled his eyes and in one swift, yet very graceful motion, removed his t-shirt. 

He saw John’s eyes go a bit wide just before he looked down at his camera. 

Sherlock smirked. It was common for people to assume because he was so tall and thin that he was scrawny. People often were surprised to when instead of smooth androgynous arms and flat torso, he was rippling with well-defined musculature.

John turned his back to Sherlock, who moved to the spot John had wanted. Soft light was coming in through the large windows. Billy set up a couple of reflectors.

Sherlock sat down on the floor. John turned to him and stared at him for a long moment, eyes jumping all over his body. 

“My god, you are a gorgeous thing, aren’t you?”

Sherlock, used to some level of admiration, was quite shocked by the reverent tone of voice. His mouth hung open. He had no idea what to say.

“I need to take your picture now. Are you ready, love?”

Sherlock just stared back at John and nodded slightly. 

John didn’t start taking photos, however. He walked up to Sherlock, who looked up at him, mouth still slightly agape and eyes widened with surprise. With one finger, he gently brushed a curl off Sherlock’s forehead. He opened his hand and gently touched Sherlock’s jaw. It felt incredibly intimate and not at all how Sherlock was used to being treated. He was used to be scrutinized and leered at but he was not used to this. Not used to the way John was looking at him. John’s expression was slightly dazed. His eyes jumped over Sherlock’s face.

He smiled and said, “Your face is impossible.”

Sherlock huffed out a short laugh. “Clearly not.”

John just kept smiling. He dropped his hand and walked a few steps away. 

He turned and lifted his camera and took his first snap. They worked together easily. Sherlock moved around and only rarely did John give him any direction. Mostly John just uttered phrases like “stunning” and “marvelous” and “beautiful” and one memorable, quiet utterance of “Jesus Christ”. 

They worked for about half an hour. By then, Sherlock had been sitting, standing, smiling, and frowning. He’d been watching John the entire time. The man was short, and sort of old. His hair blonde, but mixed with grey. He had an easy manner. Affable, people would say. He dressing in jeans, a checked shirt, and a rust-colored cardigan that offended Sherlock’s fashion sensibility, yet found himself charmed by. In fact, he was downright intrigued by John Watson. The fact that he wielded compliments as easily as his camera helped to ingratiate himself to Sherlock. But what really fascinated him was John’s strength. Sherlock knew that underneath that questionable shirt-jumper combination was solid muscle. 

Sherlock shivered slightly as arousal simmered in his groin. Now that was really surprising. That almost never happened. He was no stranger to sex, but he almost never felt sexual desire, and it had been a very, very long time. Sex for Sherlock was about fulfilling other’s desires. Controlling the situation, while appearing to be under their control. He gained power, information, money, from seeming powerless. Sometimes sex was just a game to alleviate boredom. 

Simply put, John Watson was fascinating.

They shot for another 10 minutes. 

“Do you want to see the photos?”

“Yes.”

Sherlock walked over and stood next to John. They brushed shoulders and Sherlock was not surprised to find that John was as solid as he had imagined. 

He flipped through the photos on the laptop quickly. Sherlock’s cheeks reddened a bit at the realization that in the majority of photos he was clearly looking at John - sometimes his face, sometimes his body - and not into the camera. Either John didn’t notice, although a professional photographer surely would, or he was polite enough not to tease him about it. 

“I like them.”

“The camera loves you, Sherlock,” John said warmly.

He turned away and said, “Are we through?” to the back wall of the room. He was starting to feel the band of pressure around his head, the one that told him he needed either sleep or more cocaine.

“No, let me get a few more,” John said, turning around and rummaging in his bag. “Put this on.”

Sherlock grabbed the t-shirt John had sent flying his way and just held it. “Is this yours?”

“Yeah, barely worn. It’s basically clean,”

Sherlock shook it out a bit, turning it to find the bottom, and put it on. Sherlock didn’t care about clean, and actually wished it had been worn a bit more. As he pulled it over his head he could just make out the clean scent of John’s cologne and something else. Something that must be just the smell of John’s skin. Sherlock stood still, waiting in John’s too-small black t-shirt. Sherlock’s head pounded. He was starting to feel hot and the skin behind his knees and between his shoulder blades started to prickle.

“Okay, good. Over here.”

Sherlock walked to the darkest corner of the room. John quietly directed Billy where to put the lights, where to point them, and how bright they should be set. Sherlock couldn’t take his eyes off of John. There was no doubt in him, he knew exactly what he wanted and how the photos would turn out. Sherlock, on the other hand, doubted very much that he would be able to continue for much longer. 

“John, I need to go.”

“What? No. Just a few more minutes, love.” He said quietly, earnestly.

Sherlock huffed, but stood still. John helped Billy set the lights. He walked over and placed his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. He shivered a bit, not sure if it was his need for a hit or John’s touch. 

“All right?”

“I really need to go.” Sherlock’s hands started to tremble just slightly. If he could get out of there now, John probably wouldn’t even notice.

John looked at him with eyebrows drawn together knowingly. “All right. Just please. Let me shoot you in that t-shirt here. I promise we’ll be quick.”

“Can I sit?”

“Yes, that would be fine.” John and Billy adjusted the lights to account for the height difference. John grabbed a bottle of water from his bag and handed it to him. “Here, drink this.”

Sherlock sat and drank. The water and getting off of his feet were helping him to feel better. He was surprisingly attracted to John and didn’t want to leave, but he only had a half and hour or so before his cravings would overwhelm his defenses. It was only a matter of time before he became ruder and more selfish than normal. He could be downright mean. And he really, really didn’t want John to see that side of him. Cocaine had helped him with this job at first. He wondered if it was still helping. Denial barely kept the correct answer from the forefront of his brain.

John surprised him by joining him on the floor.

“I want to be on your level. Submissive poses would be...interesting...but it’s not what I want right now.”

“What should I do?”

John had Sherlock sit, leaning back on his palms. 

“Gorgeous. Now sit forward with hands on your knees,” John said. “Relax your face just a bit more. You love me, you love the person taking these photos.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened slightly at John’s boldness. He was unsure about love, but he could do desire. He could easily look at John with desire.

“Oh, yes. Perfect,” John said, hidden behind the camera, but his voice had gone rough. 

Several more shots like that and John had him lean all the way over and forward so he was resting all of his weight on his palms and one hip.

“Let me…” John said, before he crawled over to Sherlock’s arms and flipped over on his back. In this position, he was under him. Sherlock was looking down into the camera, leaning over John like a lover hovering just before a kiss. 

“Relax for me again, love,” John said, as he shot, “Lean down a bit. Jesus, your lips.”

At that, Sherlock smiled. John lowered his camera and grinned back at him. “Sorry.” But he didn’t sound sorry. 

Sherlock couldn’t really wipe the smile off of his face. As John went back to shooting, Sherlock kept on smiling. As if in a dream, he reached out and ran two fingers down the length of John’s jaw. John’s cheeks changed shape under his fingers as he lowered his camera. He smiled back at Sherlock. They locked eyes. Sherlock was absorbed into those dark blue irises and long blonde eyelashes. John’s smile grew wider. He lifted the camera, breaking the spell and shot exactly one more photo. 

Sherlock came back to himself at the click of the camera. His face fell as he realized what he had done. He had touched John intimately, unprofessionally. The aches in his body slammed back into his awareness and he suddenly hopped to his feet and said, “John. I’m sorry. I really have to go now.”

John scrambled to his feet and said, “Oh, okay. Of course.”

The band around his head tightened.  _ Now, now, now, now _ , his brain repeated. 

Grabbing his coat and pulling it on swiftly, he said, “Thank you, John. It’s been a pleasure.” 

They shook hands briefly due to Sherlock’s haste and John called after his retreating form, “Likewise!”

Sherlock felt the need to escape so strongly that he barely felt the pavement beneath his feet as he rushed towards the subway. 

He was three stops into his journey before he realized he was still wearing John’s shirt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am [onesmallfamily](http://onesmallfamily.tumblr.com) on Tumblr.


	4. Until Next Time

John stood in the middle of the room. He turned his head to Billy and raised his eyebrows. Billy smirked back. He said, “Seemed like he was in a hurry.”

“Yes,” John said, “I’m sure I know why.”

Billy just nodded. 

“Okay, thank you, good work. I hardly knew you were here and I think we got some good pictures for him.”

Billy started gathering the few lights and reflectors. John capped his lens and placed the delicate camera in the bag. Everything packed away into two bags that John could easily carry himself. 

“Well, thanks Billy. I hope we can work together again,” said John, shaking his hand. 

“Thanks, me too.” Billy nodded and walked out.

John looked around the room, wondering where Sherlock was headed. It was obvious he was feeling sick. John noticed that he’d started to sweat, but being on the floor and channeling his attention to John seemed to help him relax, even for just a few minutes. Headed to get more drugs, he figured. How did he afford them? Was he making enough money modeling? He hoped he wasn’t doing something very stupid and very dangerous. He couldn’t remember feeling this kind of concern for someone he’d just met in a very long time.  _ Since James.  _ Well, that was very dangerous indeed. He busied himself with locking the place down, left the flat, and walked towards the subway. 

As John walked, all he could think about was dark curls, blue-green eyes, sharp cheekbones, and gorgeous bow lips. As soon as he entered the train, he froze. He shook his head and muttered, “Damn it, my shirt.” No one on the subway gave a second glance to the handsome blonde man talking to himself.

xxx

With each passing day John forgot about Sherlock a little bit more. Well, that wasn’t exactly true. Every time he saw someone in a long dark overcoat, he thought of Sherlock. Every time he saw full pink lips, he thought of Sherlock. Every time he saw long graceful fingers, he thought of Sherlock. But that wasn’t that often. Or too often, he tried to convince himself. The rest of his days, not thinking about Sherlock, he was working. Building his reputation. Paying the rent. 

He tried not to look at the photo. The “fond” photo, as he’d started calling it in his mind. But it was just so compelling. It was the one picture of Sherlock he looked at over and over again. Truth be told, he was a bit obsessed. He had rarely taken such an intimate photo. And he’d done nudes!

He had taken the picture at the exact moment that Sherlock had touched his jaw. Sherlock’s beautiful face was open and smiling. He looked childlike, full of wonder, as if John was mint chocolate chip ice cream or a new bike. John wondered what was behind that look.  _ Could he really have found me so fascinating? _ Well, now he’d probably never know. He sighed, closed the Photos app, locked his phone screen. He definitely was not thinking about actually printing the damned thing out. He shook his head to clear that ridiculous thought and went back to editing photos from his latest shoot. 

It was almost a month later when he saw him. 

He’d been watching a streaming live feed of the Dior show from Milan. He didn’t normally watch the runway, but he had read about Sherlock walking in this particular show. He told himself it was just out of curiosity, to see how he looked. He told himself it was perfectly normal. 

Sherlock was fairly new to the business too so he hadn’t been tapped as the top model in the show. That meant he would be somewhere in the middle of the pack. John wondered how many outfit changes he would have. What his hair looked like. He wondered what he had been doing on the weeks since they’d met. He allowed himself to daydream because he was alone, and _ what the fuck?  _ He wasn’t hurting anyone just wondering about the gorgeous, intriguing boy. 

Sherlock came around the corner and even on the fairly small screen of his iPad, John could see that he looked horribly tired and desperately thin. His cheekbones, which had been prominent before, were downright protruding. His full lips were a sharp contrast to the pointed features of the rest of his face and jaw. His eyes were sunken and glassy. His pupils were blown wide despite the lights. Cocaine then, probably. 

Sherlock walked all right. Beautifully, in fact. He wore a black suit with no shirt underneath. The trousers and jacket were a loose, minimalist style. He was barefoot and walked with both hands in the trouser pockets. He wore makeup, of course, but it couldn’t hide the dark, almost bruised looking, circles under his eyes. 

“Oh, Sherlock,” John whispered and touched the screen. 

John watched the rest of the show helplessly. Sherlock looked terrible. He was clearly on drugs. Not eating. Not sleeping. But John needed to remind himself that they were not friends. He didn’t even have Sherlock’s phone number. 

It was late. He clicked off the screen of the iPad and turned out the light. Sleep wouldn’t come, the image of Sherlock’s hollow cheekbones floating behind his eyelids. Tomorrow, he resigned, tomorrow he’d get Sherlock’s number... _ and do what, exactly? _ He didn’t know but it made him feel a little better to have a plan.

It turned out that the next day, getting Sherlock’s number was made irrelevant by a phone call he received from Mike. 

“GQ? Shooting Sherlock?” John said, “That would be fucking brilliant. Thanks Mike.” John couldn’t believe his good fortune. Not only was it a huge break for Sherlock to have his own spread in GQ, it would be John’s first big solo shoot for a huge American magazine. 

“All right, great. Let me get back to you with the dates, but it’s going to be soon.”

John wasn’t going anywhere, especially now. “I’ll be around. Hey, can you text me Sherlock’s number?”

“You didn’t get it last time?”

“No, I guess I should have.”

“No, it’s just that Sebastian said that Sherlock talked about you after your shoot together. I thought…” Mike trailed off.

“He talked about me?”

“Yeah, he never talks about anyone. Hell, he barely talks  _ to _ anyone,” Mike chuckled.

John was completely caught off guard and was silent for a few beats. “What did he say?”

“Said you were very good. Said it was fun. He’s never said that.”

John made a confused humming noise. “Well, it was sort of fun. He’s really quite smart.” He left off the  _ for a model _ part, but he figured Mike would understand.

Mike said, “He’s brilliant actually, graduated Uni early. I’m sure if you asked he’d tell you about it. He likes you apparently.”

John could hear his smirk over the line. “All right, thanks Mike. I’ll hear from you soon.”

“Talk soon.” 

John’s phone pinged with a text from Mike. Sherlock’s number. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am [onesmallfamily](http://onesmallfamily.tumblr.com) on Tumblr.


	5. Night Shoot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for brief description of drug use.

John spent the next few days talking with a stylist, hair and makeup, a location scout, Billy, and Mike about the shoot. The only person he hadn’t talked to was Sherlock.

GQ wanted John for his gritty journalistic style, but the shoot was to be of sophisticated clothing with Sherlock looking very slick. John needed to figure out how he could infuse his style into what was turning out to be a traditional fashion shoot.

He decided not to listen to the location scout and go with his own idea. He liked to work a certain way, and he didn’t want to change now.

The hair and make-up artists, Billy, and John met at the location. Although it was already 5 o’clock it was freezing outside.

“Nice place you picked here,” Billy grumbled.

John didn’t say anything. He knew this would be a tough shoot and the less he said he figured the less anyone had to argue with. They were under a roadway in Brooklyn. There were several alleyways and tunnels leading from the open courtyard they would shoot in, giving the feeling of isolation and confusion. The walls were adorned thickly with years of bright, ever-changing graffiti.

John unpacked his equipment and propped everything up by a doorway. He heard Billy grunt in question as he took a key bundle from his jacket and opened a doorway leading to a small room. The room was filled with old equipment making it seem like an old control room for when the train went by there.

“How’d you get those?” Billy asked, indicating the key.

“Friend of mine works for the city.”

Billy just nodded.

"Well, when I say friend..." he trailed off. Best Billy didn't know that they were left at his flat by a bloke he'd met on Grindr. He'd never called after to ask John if he'd left them, so John used them in every lock in the city seeing how they'd be useful. That was an interesting two weeks.

The small room would be a private area for Sherlock to get ready for the shoot and change clothes.

John walked out of the room and was talking quietly with Billy when he heard heavy footsteps echoing off the cement walls. He looked up and saw Sherlock walking slowly towards them, cigarette dangling from his lips, eyes glued to his mobile screen, and fingers flying over the screen. He was wearing the long coat and boots he wore last time. His hair had grown out a bit framing his sharp cheekbones and dark eyelashes perfectly. John thought he was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

When Sherlock was a few feet away, John could see the dark circles under his eyes. He could see the sallow tone in his skin. He still took John’s breath away. But he looked tired, and...blank.

Sherlock finally looked up and found John’s eyes immediately.

“Hello,” he said, cigarette bouncing on those full lips.

“Hello, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s face was completely blank as he stared at John. John missed the light he had seen in his eyes the last time they were together.

John cleared his throat and lifted his arm in the direction of the small control room. “Over here. You can get ready here.”

Sherlock’s eyes flicked over the doorway, and over to the hair and makeup people. They would transform him into a suit-wearing sex bomb. Sherlock walked to the small room and went inside, nodding at the man and woman waiting just outside. John followed and lingered in the doorway.

“Can I get you anything?”

Sherlock quirked one thick eyebrow, but didn’t answer.

“Right,” John said.

Sherlock nudged the heavy coat off of his shoulders, letting it slide down his arms. John watched the movement, then focused on the muscles rippling just underneath his t-shirt. _His t-shirt._ He looked up at Sherlock’s face, who was wearing a smug smirk, chin lifted in defiance.

John barked out a sharp laugh, startling Sherlock, who looked like he was expecting John to be mad.

xxx

Sherlock expected John to protest and sputter when he noticed that Sherlock wearing his t-shirt. He wanted to provoke some kind of reaction. He knew it was probably childish, but it was ingrained in him that attention paid no matter how negative, was preferable to a non-reaction.

John surprised him though. Seems that John surprised him each time they met. Sherlock was...intrigued.

John smiled mildly as he explained his vision for the overall shoot. Sherlock listened intently and was again surprised that he loved all of John’s ideas. Photographers always wanted to sort of ‘butch’ him up. His features were so unique and not-quite-delicate, but feminine in a way. Especially his lips. John, however, wanted to highlight his features and have him wear makeup. Full smokey eyes with soft glossy lips. Sherlock smiled. He was actually excited to get started. He needed just one little bump and then he’d be ready.

“I like it, thank you.”

John looked slightly surprised. Sherlock supposed his disagreeable reputation preceded him.

“Can I just?” he gestured towards the door and said, “Have a bit of privacy before we get started?”

John frowned and stared at him with narrowed eyes. Sherlock looked away first, feeling slightly ashamed that John might know what he was going to do. _Who cares, he’s only a photographer that you don’t even know, you’re a star!_ the devil on his shoulder told him. He looked at John again, challenging him to say something.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows as John turned and said lowly, “Nice shirt.” He watched John’s arse as he walked away. Definitely intrigued.

Sherlock was still holding his coat, so he hung it up in the small room after closing the door. He retrieved the little snuff bullet, turned the stopcock, and lifted it to his nose. He hesitated. Just for a second. Then he huffed out a breath, rolled his eyes, and inhaled the powder sharply.

xxx

John absolutely knew what Sherlock was doing in that small room.

After less than a minute, Sherlock had opened the door and said, “I’m ready.” He didn’t look any different. His eyes were no brighter, his limbs and fingers were not twitching. Sherlock was simply using to stay level. He was a functional addict. For now. John could foresee, though. He could see it all unravelling and it made his stomach ache with impotence.

He directed Jason and Claire into the small room to work their magic. They left the door open so John could hear the interactions between his team and his model. Everything was mostly agreeable and mostly quiet while they worked.

Jason coaxed Sherlock’s long dark curls into soft, gorgeous disorder that cascaded around his head and laid perfectly over his forehead and ears.

Claire lined his eyes with soft black and plum. The purple tones brought out the green of Sherlock’s aquamarine eyes. She’d put a thick clear gloss on his lips. He looked absolutely otherworldly and thoroughly shaggable.

Billy, acting as John’s assistant and an unlikely stylist, fitted him in a slim, shiny, dark blue suit over a very soft looking silk shirt in deep purple.

He walked towards John calmly, as if he wasn’t the most gorgeous thing John had ever seen.

“I’m yours for the taking,” he said, smirking.

John remembered back to when he first heard those lips utter that same phrase. His eyes flicked over Sherlock’s face, focusing finally on his lips. John looked away before things became very awkward for all of them in the room.

“Good to know,” John said and smiled. “You look amazing.”

Sherlock smiled and looked down at the floor.

John called out to the team, “Thank you all, he looks amazing.”

A few murmurs of agreement floated back towards him.

“It’s going to just get colder, let’s begin.”

John directed Sherlock to stand in front of a colorful wall of paint and said, “I want to see you angry.”

Sherlock’s mouth quirked up at the edges humorlessly. “Oh, I can do angry.”

John didn’t hear anger, though. He heard sadness.

Let’s start over here. He pointed towards a curb and a low concrete barrier. John liked the way the street lamps enhanced the shine of Sherlock's irises.

“All right. I want that gorgeous face of yours to scowl. Try to keep your body relaxed but I want some tension in your face. Especially your eyes.”

Sherlock frowned and grimaced and snarled. He gave beautiful angry faces to the camera and did exactly as John had asked.

“Oh, love. That's just beautiful.”

The praise seemed to energize him and his eyes went wide in a fantastic approximation of rage.

John clicked as fast as he could trying to keep up with each microexpression. He didn't want to miss anything.

“Great! That was just great. Let's get you changed and we’ll come over here.”

“All right.”

John reviewed some of the photos on his screen and was thrilled.

Sherlock came out in the next outfit. It reminded John of something.

“Lovely. That suit reminds me of one you wore in Milan,” John said, before he could stop himself. He cringed internally. He hadn't really wanted to reveal that he'd watched that show. He really had no reason to watch that show.

Sherlock frowned and looked down at himself as if he hadn't paid attention to what he wore. “The Spanish designer. I deleted his name.”

John didn't know what that meant but nodded anyway.

“You watched me.”

_Damn._ “Um. Well. I watched the show. Um,” he trailed off. He sounded like a right idiot.

Sherlock quirked one eyebrow but mercifully said nothing.

John started to shoot and Sherlock immediately started posing. Long minutes ticked by.

“Let me take a look at what I've got, stay right there, love.”

Sherlock stopped posing and stood quietly. When John was satisfied he looked up and decided to try to get to know his model better.

“Tell me about Milan, did you like it?”

Sherlock looked surprised for a nanosecond then composed himself. He answered coolly, “Like it?”

“Uh, yeah. Had you been there before?”

Sherlock stared at John as if he was the most boring person on the planet. “No. And yes.”

It took him a second but he got it. _No, he didn't like it. Yes, he'd been there before._

“Oh,” he said lamely, “why didn't you like it?”

Sherlock looked around at Billy and the others watching them and said, “John, I’d really rather not talk about Milan.”

“Sorry.” He looked down and gestured for Sherlock to follow him to a particularly bright wall. “Stand here, I'm going to get close. Head and shoulders shots.”

Sherlock nodded and leaned back against the wall. John clicked away, murmuring his encouragements.

Sherlock looked a bit sad. John stopped shooting and was about to ask if he could change his facial expression when he quietly said, “My friend, Victor, got in a spot of trouble in Milan. I tried to help him but I couldn't. It didn't work.”

The way Sherlock said Victor’s name told John all that he needed to know about Sherlock's love for the man. Disappointment and jealousy flared in his chest. He chastised himself for it, he had no right to feel those things about this young man.

John lowered his camera. “Is he all right?”

“For now.”

“He’s important to you.”

“He was my first...everything”

“You said friend. But he’s your boyfriend, yes?”

“No.”

“Oh.”

“I care about him but we haven’t been together in a very long time.”

John studied his face. He said it with no sorrow so John believed that they were now simply good friends. He got the impression that Sherlock was telling him something he didn’t expect to.

“Will you try to help him again?”

“If the opportunity presents itself, yes.”

Dread welled confusingly in his gut. He didn’t know why, but he feared for Sherlock’s safety. “I...I don’t know...why...I mean, if there’s ever anything you need, I’d like to help.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows shot up and then down into a confused knitted wrinkle on the bridge of his nose. John wanted to press his thumb there to smooth it out.

John said, “Sorry, nevermind. I’m sure you’re more than capable…” he trailed off. “Okay, let’s go, I’m sure I’ll get the best shot in the next thirty seconds.”

Sherlock relaxed and changed his face back to his model one. After a few minutes of shooting, he said, “Thank you, John.”

John just smiled.

After a while he said, “Did you go to University?”

Sherlock nodded.

“What did you study?”

“Chemistry. Graduate chemistry, actually.”

“I knew you were smart, but that’s impressive.”

“Better living through chemistry, John.”

“I’m not sure that’s quite true, darling.”

Sherlock’s eyes bored into his. John startled a bit at the intensity of the scrutiny but held his stare.

“Why do you do that?”

“What?”

“Call me...names.”

“Oh, I... don’t know.” He was genuinely surprised by the question.

“Do you do it with other people?”

He thought about that. “Actually, no, I don’t think I do.” After a long, long time and many photos later John said quietly so no one else could hear, “I guess I feel a bit...affectionate towards you.”

Sherlock stared at him. John took a photo so that maybe he could figure out what that expression meant later. He couldn’t believe he’d just said that and changed the subject. “All right, the big coat and then we’re done.”

Sherlock’s only response was to walk towards the clothes rack. He shrugged on the big coat and turned to look at John. “Lovely,” he said, and pointed Sherlock towards a dark corner.

It swirled and moved almost sensuously on Sherlock’s lean frame. John clicked and clicked trying to catch the drama of the his silhouette.

Once John was satisfied that he had gotten what he needed, the others’ grumbling about the cold was just reaching its peak.

“All right, thank you everyone. Sherlock, thank you.”

In a flurry of activity, everyone went to work to wrap up and clean up their area. Claire cleaned the makeup off of Sherlock’s face with some moist cloths that got most everything. A bit of dark liner remained around his alien eyes. Sherlock changed into his own clothes. Well, his own trousers and coat - he put John’s t-shirt back on. John let it go without comment and merely smiled to himself.

He hoisted his laptop and camera bags onto his good shoulder and was about to say goodbye to Sherlock when the man himself was already standing right next to him, a little closer than would be considered normal in British culture.

“Dinner?”

“I’m sorry?” John choked out, completely shocked.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and huffed out a breath. “Dinner? With me? Right now.”

“Um...it’s a bit late.” _Why the fuck had he said that? Jesus, his brain was a useless fucking lump._ “I mean, yes. Starving. Dinner. Now.” _By all means, don’t use complete sentences._

Sherlock smirked as he pulled out a cigarette. He looked tired. He should probably go get some sleep, but there was no way John was going to suggest that.

They walked together to where Sherlock hailed a cab in less than two minutes.

“I know a place near your flat,” Sherlock said, giving the driver the name of the place and directions.

“My flat?” They'd never talked about where John lived.

Sherlock looked out the window. “Yes.”

“You looked me up somehow,” John said, incredulous. He couldn’t decide if he should be flattered that a gorgeous young man sought him out online or frightened that an unpredictable drug addict stalked him through unknown channels.

“I wanted to know where we would be shagging.”

John made a noise. Something between a scoff and choking to death.

Sherlock turned to lean in close. He stared at John, his silver eyes boring into him. John saw determination, satisfaction, a bit of amusement, and a lot of heat. John thought _Could I really do this?_ It wasn’t prudent. It wasn’t professional. This young addict was exquisite and troubled and possibly attached to an ex-lover from his youth. John would be unwise to get involved with Sherlock. But he was so brilliant and heart-stoppingly beautiful. John had rarely felt so powerless against his own longing. _Well...fuck it._

“Let’s make it takeaway.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am [onesmallfamily](http://onesmallfamily.tumblr.com) on Tumblr.


	6. Kiss

The cab dropped them off in front of John’s building on a quiet street not too far from their shoot location. Sherlock waited for John to open the front door by looking around and scowling at the street, the cars, the trees, and John’s front door.

“Why do you live here?” Sherlock said, while they walked through the door to his second floor flat.

John looked around the small room. He knew it was small but it had good light, an actual bedroom, and just enough of its Victorian architecture preserved that it pleased John aesthetically. The light grey paint throughout the main room was complemented by the many white-framed photos crowding each wall. It was the nicest place John had lived in in a long time and he was mildly offended at Sherlock’s tone.

“What do you mean?” He crossed his arms over his chest.

“It’s too quiet.”

“Most people like the quiet.”

He mumbled as he turned to one of the photograph-covered walls, “I suppose I’m not most people.”

“No, I suppose not.” John walked into the kitchen. “Wine?”

“Please.”

As John was opening a bottle of red, he snuck glances at his guest. Sherlock still wore his big coat with the collar popped. “You can hang your coat if you like,” John said, gesturing to where he had hung his Haversack.

Sherlock looked skeptically at John as if he were trying to trick him.

“Or not…” John said softly, turning to pour the glasses. He was confused. Sherlock had been the one to invite himself over and now he seemed deeply suspicious. Possibly he was paranoid from the cocaine? Although, to John, he didn’t seem high anymore. He looked dead tired. And too thin. John pulled up the mobile app that allowed him to order local delivery and placed an order from his favourite Chinese.

To his relief, by the time he turned back, Sherlock had shrugged off the great coat and it hung over John’s own.

He handed the glass to Sherlock and said, “I hope you like Chinese.”

“I do.”

Sherlock turned back to the photos on his wall and said, “Who’s this?”

John didn’t even need to look to know exactly the photo Sherlock asked about. Of course, this beautiful, scarily perceptive genius would pick that photo from the scores of others crowding the walls.

“James,” he said, keeping his voice completely neutral.

“You loved each other.”

John looked down and didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know if he’d loved James. It felt like he had. He mourned the loss of him like he did. Sadness welled in his heart and he looked down. He had no desire to talk or think about James. He took a big gulp of wine and said, “Leave it to you to ask me about the one photo I don’t want to talk about.”

Sherlock seemed to take John’s statement in the spirit in which it was given. Quiet, sad, but not bitter or a complaint. Sherlock smiled at him, dipped his head down in a nod of acknowledgement, and reached forward to tap his glass against John’s.

John took a long sip and sat on the couch with one leg folded in front of him. He indicated with a wave that Sherlock should sit next to him. Sherlock mimicked his position so they were facing each other.

“Cheers,” John said, and raised his glass to Sherlock.

They clinked glasses together again and after his sip, Sherlock said with a cheeky wink, “Anything special we’re celebrating.”

A breath whooshed out of John, reassured that with one gesture Sherlock had put the evening right again.

xxx

They talked easily over dumplings and lo mein noodles. John watched Sherlock eat and made sure he filled their wine glasses sparingly. He wanted them both to be relaxed but mostly sober.

John learned about Sherlock’s interest in chemistry that began when he was only six years old. Only in Uni did he start to have recreation in mind rather than the chemical properties of gasses and metals and bases. John told him about his first camera.

Sherlock was fascinating. He was interesting, and interested in what John said. He asked the right questions, flirted shamelessly, and generally impressed the hell out of John. He was beautiful, brilliant, a bit on the young side. And he apparently wanted to shag John.

Sherlock excused himself to use the loo. John took their plates, cutlery and leftovers to the sink to rinse. Even over the rushing water, John heard the bathroom door open and Sherlock’s soft footprints approaching him. He switched off the tap just as Sherlock’s arms slipped around his waist.

_Oh god, it’s happening._

Sherlock wrapped himself completely around John, arms crossing his torso and coming to rest on his ribcage. He pressed himself against John’s back and kissed his neck with soft little dry pecks.

John moved his head to the side and hummed. It felt amazing to be caged in, held by this very tall, deceptively muscular beauty. He smelled divine.

Sherlock trailed the tiny kisses up his neck to nuzzle in John’s ear. All soft breath and nudges with his nose. Sherlock’s voice was low and quiet when he said, “I can’t figure it out.”

“Hmm,” John hummed again.

“I like you, John. I don’t like anyone.”

It could have been snarky, it could have been rude or sarcastic, but Sherlock said this with a quiet sense of wonder that made John shiver. Confirmation that this boy wanted him was all John needed to take this to the next step.

John lifted his hands and ran them along Sherlock’s forearms to interlace their fingers together. He pulled Sherlock’s hands away so that he could twist and face him. Sherlock stayed close and they joined hands again. John looked up into the most exotically beautiful face he’d ever laid eyes on and said, “Sherlock…”

The edges of Sherlock’s lips quirked slowly. John released their hands and put one behind Sherlock’s neck and reached up to softly lay his other along his jaw. He rubbed his thumb slowly along his bottom lip while Sherlock looked at him, hungry and half-lidded.

“I’ve dreamt of these lips.”

“You can do more than dream.”

John pulled Sherlock’s neck so their lips touched. John slowly, deliberately, caressed their lips together. It was soft and agonizingly sweet. John’s heart beat faster and he dared to taste Sherlock’s upper lip. Sherlock parted his lips with a soft moan and deepened the kiss by licking back into John’s mouth. Sherlock reached up and cradled John’s head in his oversized hands. _God, those hands…_ John had thought about them a bit more than he wanted to admit to himself and now they were guiding his head so that Sherlock could claim his mouth.

They stood there for long minutes learning each other’s lips, tongues, teeth, jawlines. Sherlock’s hands stayed on his head, but he allowed himself to indulge in running his hands over Sherlock’s torso and hips and arse. Sherlock hummed and moaned and made gorgeous little grunting sounds as their kiss turned from sweet to exploratory to heated.

To his everlasting dismay, his phone chimed for an incoming text. Mike’s alert sound.

John reluctantly pulled his lips away from Sherlock’s and apologized, “I have to. Mike.”

Sherlock nodded sluggishly, as if in a dream, and slowly opened his eyes. He smiled down at John and seemed to understand. There was always another model or photographer waiting to steal your next job. One had to answer texts and calls immediately or else you’d miss out. “I’ll wait for you in there, shall I?” Sherlock nodded his head in the direction of the bedroom.

John reached for him again and kissed him hard, possessively. “God, yes, please.”

Sherlock kissed back enthusiastically for a moment, then pulled away. John watched him turn and walk away, thanking the universe that he was going to get to see ( _taste? fuck?_ ) that arse. Sherlock walked into the loo first.

 **From Mike (22:18) :** **call me immediately. shoot for Mercedes with RDJ**

As John tapped the screen to call Mike back, he heard Sherlock move into the bedroom. A flutter of anticipation bubbled low in his belly, not for shooting a potentially career-changing celebrity car campaign, but for having the sexiest and most beautiful man he’d ever seen enter his bedroom with lustful intentions.

Mike answered right away, “John, what…”

John interrupted him and said, “Yes. Of course. When?”

“It’s a bit sticky, you sure you don’t want to hear the details first?”

“Tell me, but I’m sure my answer will be the same.”

“It’s in Atlanta and you have to be there tomorrow at noon. Location and crew are set and RDJ is coming at four and you have thirty minutes to get the shot.”

His time with Sherlock would be cut short, he’d have to leave early for the airport...but it was only a two and a half hour flight. He could probably book as late as eight. Plenty of time to have Sherlock in his bed and make it to the airport.

“Book a flight as close to eight as you can, I’ll be there.”

“Good man.”

“Thanks Mike, this is amazing.Thirty minutes though...”

“I know, mate. But it could up your fee and put you in higher demand. Don’t fuck it up.”

“As if I ever do. Text me the details.”

“Will do.”

They hung up. John shook his head. Thirty minutes. That meant only one location and one wardrobe. He was going to need everything to go perfectly. What did Downey Jr. like, anyway? What would he look good in? What would make him comfortable? These were the things John asked himself of every subject he was going to shoot. He could do some research on the plane.

Thinking of Sherlock once more, he focussed again on the stone of arousal low in his gut. The phone call and distraction had allowed enough time for tiny doubts to creep into the forefront of his mind. It was probably a terrible idea to start something with the young model while he was still using, still very much starting his career. Maybe it would just be tonight? Maybe they would date and John could be a good influence in his life? His urges to take care of Sherlock hadn’t gone away since the first moment they met. It probably wasn’t healthy. John knew he was over-thinking things. He shook his head again, resolved to stop thinking so much, and walked towards the bedroom.

In his mind’s eye, Sherlock was naked on his bed, duvet just covering his groin. All of his other skin would be exposed for John’s perusal. He would stand in the doorway and rake his eyes over long fingers, long arms, and miles of lean legs. John would not hesitate, he’d take off his own clothes and join the beauty in his bed and see where the night took them.

He walked through the door and yes, he found Sherlock on the bed. Not only was he not naked, he was still almost fully dressed. John looked at him with a mixture of fondness and frustration.

Sherlock Holmes was hugging John’s pillow, sound asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am [onesmallfamily](http://onesmallfamily.tumblr.com) on Tumblr. I'd love it if you'd come by and say hello.


	7. Sorry

Sherlock woke sometime before dawn judging by the soft grey light filtering in through the windows. The first thing he realized was that he was still wearing his jeans and t-shirt. He remembered everything. The kiss, John’s phone call, falling asleep simply because he was comfortable, full, and slightly drunk. He had wanted to kiss John again but the pull of sleep was too much. He hadn’t slept in sixty-seven hours.

He woke up hugging a pillow that smelled like John. He woke up to the soft sound of John breathing, still sleeping next to him.

Sherlock looked at John’s sleeping face and imagined him coming into his bedroom and finding him asleep. He knew he must have been disappointed. After all, Sherlock had practically promised shagging. Sherlock wondered how long John’s phone call was. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep but he must have done so within minutes of lying down.  

 _Ugh._ Sherlock was disgusted with himself. He liked John. He wanted John. Their bodies fit together. Their kiss was delicious. Sherlock just knew that they would have incredible physical chemistry. Even now, watching John, Sherlock felt a tightness between his legs and a churning low in his belly. But he had fallen asleep, projecting an unintentional message of ‘I don’t want you” and yet John had still dressed for sleep and joined him in bed. Sherlock didn’t deserve someone like John. Sherlock masticated, sampled, tasted, and spat out lovers because he was just not interested. But John? John was unmatched, unparalleled, unrivaled. He had feelings for John that were unexplained. He knew he needed to leave the unsuspecting photographer alone. Sherlock knew his involvement in his life would only bring distress and regret to John.

Slowly, out of respect and affection, Sherlock extracted himself from John’s bed. He stood, looking down at John, and felt remorse over what he was about to do.

He gathered his coat and shoes, looking back at John once more. He walked out into the kitchen where there was an ancient chalkboard that hadn’t been used by John or any of the recent tenants. Yet there it was with a small sliver of chalk waiting for Sherlock’s lament.

xxx

John woke up alone, just like he feared.

He’d found Sherlock sleeping last night and was certainly disappointed. But his affection for the young man and his relaxed, slumbering beauty propelled John to change into pajama trousers and a vest and join him quietly.

He hadn’t meant to fall asleep. He hoped that Sherlock would wake up when he joined him but the boy was dead to the world. Their shoot and dinner with John was probably at the end of a multi-day bender. _God, what was he doing?_ He should not get involved. Watching Sherlock’s beautiful face, breathing deeply in sleep, John was mesmerized by his youth and alien beauty. He didn’t know how long it took, he couldn’t remember, but at some point he had fallen asleep.

Of course Sherlock had gone.

He got up slowly and walked out into the main living area expecting to find nothing. He was unsurprised. In fact, he looked around and was grimly relieved that his wallet, phone, camera, laptop, and everything else a young drug addict might lift was still there. He hated that he didn’t trust Sherlock. _But why should he?_

When he walked into the kitchen, he saw the note scrawled on the abandoned chalkboard. It was a simple “I’m sorry - SH”.

John stared at it for a long time before he muttered, “Me too.”

He turned and walked toward the bathroom, ready for a long shower.

xxx

Three weeks later, John got a text.

He had been trying not to think about Sherlock. About Sherlock and his beautiful eyes and curious mind and gorgeous hands. He had to remind himself that his ridiculous thoughts (and actions - he’d printed out a hard copy of that damned photo) were wasted on a young irresponsible manipulator who had invited himself home with John, kissed him, only to sneak out in the middle of the night. Overwhelmed with anger and regret that he let himself feel something for Sherlock, he he tried to banish thoughts of him as soon as they surfaced.

It didn’t work. John wanted another kiss. He wanted more time. He was caught in a loop of desire, regret, anger, resignation, desire, regret, anger...he stared at the chalkboard for long moments, thoughts lost to time. After nine days of this foolish, adolescent, unbelievably infuriating behavior, John erased Sherlock’s message and made a conscious choice to move the fuck on.

It was working, it really was. He’d pulled a bloke in his favorite old haunt in the Village. He’d met a beautiful young woman (not a model!) at a gallery opening just a few nights before. They were going to MOMA tomorrow.

Then Sherlock texted.

**Sherlock (12:20): Could use your help - SH**

John had two emotions almost simultaneously, incredulity and worry. He was dismayed to realize that worry was winning out. “Fuck,” he said aloud.

John put down his mug of tea and stared at his phone. He was unable to understand why he felt so connected to Sherlock. He desperately wanted to forget him, he knew he should ignore the text. In his right mind he knew he needed to ignore the pull, the connection, the affinity for this one person like he’d rarely felt before. Before he could decide what to do ( _oh, who was he kidding? He was definitely going to text back_ ) his mobile buzzed again.

**Sherlock (12:21): Please - SH**

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” John said.

**Sent (12:25): You ditched me last time we saw each other and now you need my help?**

He stared at it for a long moment before deciding that it was not too harsh. Hell, it probably wasn’t harsh enough. Sherlock had snuck out in the middle of the night!

It took twelve minutes for Sherlock to answer.

**Sherlock (12:37): I am sorry. I wouldn’t bother you unless I felt I had to - SH**

**Sent (12:37): Are you okay?**

**Sherlock (12:39): I am safe - SH**

**Sent (12:40): Then what?**

**Sherlock (12:40): It’s Victor - SH**

John rolled his eyes and muttered, “Just great.” How in Sherlock’s great big brain did it makes sense that John would want to help him with boyfriend problems? It made no sense.

**Sent (12:43): Why should I help your boyfriend? Can’t someone else help?**

**Sherlock (12:43): He’s not my boyfriend. But he is my oldest friend and he’s in trouble -SH**

**Sent (12:44): I’m sorry about that but why me?**

**Sherlock (12:44): It involves someone you know - SH**

John knew a lot of people in the business but he certainly wasn’t the most connected. Surely Sherlock had worked with other photographers who had been around for a lot longer. Also, how would Sherlock know who he knew?

**Sent (12:45): Who?**

**Sherlock (12:45): Mary Morstan**

John blew out a long breath and looked up to the ceiling. Mary. His lying, psychopathic ghost of an ex-wife, Mary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am [onesmallfamily](http://onesmallfamily.tumblr.com) on Tumblr.


	8. Backstory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I suppose this is where this story earns its explicit rating, although it isn't because of anything John and Sherlock do together (yet).

Sherlock met Victor in primary school. Black floppy hair, glasses, prominent brow and nose, perfect bow lips and brown eyes full of mischief, even at eight years old.

He giggled over words in their books that Sherlock didn’t understand. Well, he understood the words, but he had no idea what was so funny. He’d smile at Victor because it made him smile back. Not many people smiled at Sherlock.

They both had lisps, although Sherlock’s was a bit stronger, especially when he was sleepy. He wondered if Victor hated his lisp, as he did his own.

When they were thirteen, Victor told Sherlock that he liked boys. Like, _liked_ liked them.

Sherlock was confused. He didn’t like anyone except Victor.

“I like boys too. I like you.”

“No Holmes, I like boys they way that I’m supposed to like girls.”

Sherlock was completely confused. “How are we supposed to like girls?”

“We’re supposed to want to kiss them and have sex with them.”

Of course Sherlock knew what sex and kissing was but he’d never thought about himself doing either of those things with anyone. He didn’t even like when anyone touched him.

“Well, I don’t want to do that.”

“Well, I do. I’m gay.” Victor said petulantly.

“I’m a boy, do you want to kiss me?”

“Of course I want to kiss you! You’re my best friend.”

“You’re my best friend too,” Sherlock said, “but I don’t want to kiss you.”

“Oh.” Victor looked dejected.

Sherlock couldn’t stand when Victor was angry with him. He seemed to be the only person that could make Sherlock want to be better. He loved his friend and maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to be kissed.

“You could kiss me if you wanted. It’s okay.”

“Really?” Victor’s face lit up with excitement.

“Sure, why not? I don’t think I’m gay,” Sherlock paused, “Actually, I’ve never thought about this at all. I have no idea what I am.”

“All right.”

“Trev, you can but can we do it later? I have a Trigonometry quiz in 10 minutes.”

“You and your Year 10 Maths,” Victor said, smiling fondly at Sherlock. Sherlock blushed. He loved that smile. Maybe he did want to kiss Victor. He’d think about it later, after Maths.

Later that day, each sitting cross-legged on the floor in Sherlock’s room, Victor kissed him. It was slow and quiet and a little bit wet. Sherlock sat very still while Victor placed a few short pecks on his lips and swiped his tongue gently along his upper lip.

Victor sat back and said, “How’s that?”

“Let me try.”

Sherlock leaned forward and copied Victor’s kisses exactly.

He leaned back and said, “It’s all right, but I’m just thinking of my chemistry homework.”

“You don’t feel anything…” Victor gestured towards his groin, “there?”

Sherlock looked down and was surprised to see a bulge in Victor’s jogging bottoms. Sherlock blushed and looked away, shaking his head slightly. Victor adjusted his position to sit on one hip, effectively hiding his erection.

“It’s okay, Holmes. You’re still my best friend.” Victor said, but then timidly added, “Right?”

Sherlock’s head snapped up and he nodded vigorously. “Yes. Yes, you’re my best friend.”

They smiled at each other, relieved.

“Um...I’m just going to go…” Victor said, and walked out the bedroom door towards the loo.

Sherlock sighed, watching him go. He wondered if he could force himself to be less of a freak, more normal for Victor.

They remained best friends for the years following their awkward kiss. Victor experimented sexually with many other boys their age and even had a steady boyfriend for three weeks. Sherlock liked the bloke, but when he deduced that he was kissing someone else in class too, he felt he needed to tell Victor. He didn’t know how Victor would react, but he was pleasantly surprised to find that he laughed. He said, “I know, Holmes. We’re too young to just have each other.” So Sherlock went on that way, deducing Victor’s flings, steering him away from the cruel, the too-old, or the unclean.

When they were seventeen, Sherlock was obsessed with forensic chemistry and was working his way quickly through his thesis. During a particularly warm spring day, they studied together on on the lawn in Kensington Gardens. Victor wore ridiculously small black shorts and an oversized t-shirt. Sherlock rolled his eyes and said, “Trev, do you think your shorts could be any tighter?” To which Victor replied, “They could but I don’t want to squash little Vic. He looks better this way.”

“Little Vic? Oh my god. How undignified.”

“Not so little actually,” Victor replied with a wink.

“I know. I can see,” Sherlock said, smiling. Sherlock felt nothing more than brotherly exasperation as they sat down on the lawn.

But then Victor removed his t-shirt.

Sherlock had seen Victor naked hundreds of times over their long friendship but on that warm afternoon when Victor stretched out on his back, arm slung over his head revealing dark patches of hair under his arms, along his pectoral muscles, a trail from his stomach down into his shorts, Sherlock felt an overwhelming need to touch. And taste.

His mouth filled with saliva as his eyes swept up and down Victor’s body, taking in every beautiful detail. A choked noise like “Guh” came out of his mouth. Sherlock belatedly realized, with horror and humiliation, that he had an erection. He turned away with a grunt but it was too late, Victor had opened his eyes. He may have missed the erection, but he must have seen the slack-jawed, open look of pure lust on his face.

“Holmes?”

Sherlock didn’t dare turn around. He was facing away from Victor, hugging his legs to his chest, trying to breathe.

“All right? You’re breathing awfully heavy.”

“Fuck.”

Victor leaned up to peer over Sherlock’s shoulder.

“What’s wrong?”

Sherlock stammered out, “I...I...eugh...just nevermind,” he finished, exasperated and frustrated.

“Holmes,” Victor said, with a warning tone. Sherlock rolled his eyes. Victor was not as good at deduction as he was, but he was going to figure it out soon enough. Sherlock wondered how on earth this could have happened. In an instant, he was attracted to his best friend. Lusty. Horny. God, he wanted Victor’s body on his. He wanted and wanted and if he looked at him now, he would have to confess. It would be humiliating, but he trusted Victor with his life and his body and his heart.

Sherlock looked over his shoulder at Victor. His dark eyes were soft, evidence of his affection and kindness. His prominent brow and nose had grown broader with age, the crinkle between his eyebrows evidence of his curiosity and confusion.

Sherlock loved him more than anyone in the world.  

“I can’t look at you.”

“You’re looking at me now.”

“Your face, but I can’t...look at,” he put his head back down on his folded elbows, “the rest of you.”

Victor was silent for a long moment. Sherlock could hear fabric rustling and knew Victor was putting his t-shirt back on. Victor walked around and knelt down in front of him. Sherlock looked up and saw understanding and a bit of mischief in his best friend’s face.

“I wondered if this would ever happen,” Victor said, smirking.

“Oh, shut up. It isn’t funny.”

“It’s sort of funny.”

“You’re a bastard,” Sherlock said and looked at him. He couldn’t help but smile, “A gorgeous, sexy bastard and apparently my libido has finally surfaced.”

Victor looked up at the blue sky, thinking. Sherlock wanted to lick his throat.

“God!” Sherlock said, curling himself tighter.

Victor looked down and chuckled. “All right, you lusty berk, here’s what we are going to do. We’re going to walk back to your room and take off our clothes and I’m going to show you some things.”

Sherlock looked at his beautiful friend. There was only one answer to that. He said, “All right.”

That’s all it took for them to start a very educational and very satisfying sexual relationship. After a week where Sherlock was completely obsessed with nothing but Victor’s body, things had slowed down a bit. His experiments, analysis, and writing demanded attention. He somewhat reluctantly put on clothes and went back to the lab.

They had decided after the first day not to be exclusive. The reality was that as much as Sherlock loved Victor he would never be able to commit, probably to anyone, ever. He couldn’t imagine dinners and dates and sharing an apartment. He was too self-involved, too focused on his work, too possessive of his personal space and time. Victor understood this about Sherlock and still loved him. He was more than happy to fuck Sherlock and whoever else came along that caught his eye.

In fact, they found out that Sherlock actually liked that Victor fucked other people. And he liked hearing about it. Since this information surfaced, Victor loved to turn Sherlock on by describing recent encounters in great, filthy detail.

“Oh my god, Holmes...your mouth.”

Sherlock loved sucking Victor’s cock.

He made such desperate moans, groans, and tiny squeaks. Sherlock loved to tease and bring him right to the edge. Victor cursed and muttered every time he’d pull off. Sherlock looked at him and winked.

Victor huffed out a laugh, “Fuck you. Get back to it.”

Sherlock smirked and swirled his tongue lightly around the head of Victor’s cock slowly, very wetly. With Victor’s cock resting on his bottom lip, he said, “Tell me about the blonde.”

Victor groaned.

One swipe along his frenulum. “Tell me,” he said, before engulfing Victor’s thick erection with wet heat.

“Fuck!” Victor’s whole body jerked. “He was so tight...ah!...it took ages until he could take three fingers.”

Sherlock moaned, imagining slender fingers thrusting into a perfect tight hole. He thrust his cock harder against the mattress.

“My cock was so hard...oh...yes...fuck...and I put it in him...just a little…”

Sherlock sucked harder, faster, sliding his hand up and down Victor’s shaft.

“So tight and,” Victor panted, “he cried out...and I fucked into him.”

Sherlock hummed around his cock and thrust faster into the bedclothes.

“So loud...he yelled ‘fuck me’...called me daddy.”

Sherlock pulled off and said, “Oh fuck.” His hand didn’t stop as he swirled his tongue over the dark purple head.

“I pulled his hair and pushed his face down...and fucked him...he loved it.”

He dove down again and took Victor’s cock between his lips. He pushed down until he couldn’t breathe. He suppressed his gag reflex and held Victor’s cock in his throat for as long as he could. He pulled off with a gasp, saliva dripping down the shaft and all over his chin. He said, “That’s so fucking hot. More.”

As Sherlock went back to quick, hard sucks at the head. “Ah! His cock was so hard...oh!...I pulled it fast and rough and he came all over my bed.”

Sherlock moaned and sucked harder, feeling that Victor was close.

“And then I fucked into his perfect tight arse until...I...you...you’re gonna make me come Holmes...I’m gonna...come…”

Victor let out a long, low grunt through gritted teeth and spilled into Sherlock’s eager mouth. Sherlock swallowed every drop. When Victor was still breathing heavy, with a hand slung up over his eyes, Sherlock moved up to straddle his hips. He spread his legs wide and ground his arsehole down on Victor’s wet, semi-hard cock. He fisted his own erection with short, fast strokes at the head while grinding his arse down on Victor.

“Oh that’s good.” He was gyrating and his hand flew up and down his cock. “You need to fuck me soon.”

Victor huffed a little laugh, “Oh, I will Holmes. Look at you. Come on me you filthy gorgeous thing. I can feel your tight little hole. You want me in there? You’re gagging for it.”

“Yes, yes, yes,” he chanted.

“I’m going to fuck you until you can’t walk. Until you can’t speak. You’ll be ruined. Death by fucking.”

“Ohhhhh...yes....” Sherlock stilled his hips and watched as he came over Victor’s stomach and chest. He watched his cock spurt quickly over and over. He rode out the pure pleasure of his orgasm, feeling the pulsing slow. He pumped a few more times, enjoying the feeling. Enjoying also his wet arse, warm with his own saliva and pressing on Victor’s now-soft penis.

“Holmes, you are fucking beautiful, you know that?”

Sherlock did not know that but liked to hear it anyway. He bent forward to place a small, soft kiss on Victor’s lips. “No, you are.”

They smiled and kissed some more before Sherlock suddenly pulled back. Victor didn't notice the look of mischief that flashed across Sherlock's face right before he took his hands and smeared his semen all over Victor’s chest and neck.

“Oi! You cock!” Victor grabbed at his wrists but he was too slow. Sherlock jumped up and away and ran to the loo, laughing maniacally like he only did with Victor.

xxx

John became friends with Mary right out of Uni. She had seen right through him the first time they met and asked, “Do you have a boyfriend?”

John blushed and stammered, “Um. No. Um…I’m not...um..”, looking down at his feet.

She’d taken pity on him and said, “It’s all right, I’m like you. Do you have a girlfriend, then?”

Still flustered, he quickly replied too loudly, “No!”

She giggled and he was charmed. One thing about Mary, from that first moment, she’d always been able to read him.

“I mean, no. I’m unattached. Like you?”

“Yes, I’m unattached. Let’s go to the pub and you can tell me all about her.”

John stared at her but wanted to know more about this cute, petite, fiery blonde who seemed to know all about him (and his broken heart). She linked her arm into his elbow and they proceeded to talk non-stop for the rest of their evening. She told him why his ex-girlfriend Sarah was not right for him, even though she was sorry he was hurting, but he would find someone better, winking as she said so. She told him about her dreams of becoming a fashion designer, her first sexual encounter with a woman, her best friend who was questioning for a while but was not transitioning for the time being. She was open and so funny and absolutely brilliant, the smartest person John had ever spent time with. John left the pub with a simple kiss on the cheek and a short half-hug.

He was besotted. He’d never met anyone like her and he wanted to know more. They dated for a few months, the sex was amazing. She was up for anything. They had threesomes with both male and female partners. The first time John sucked a cock, she was there watching with hungry eyes, rubbing her clit with one hand and wanking John with the other. She moaned a litany of words, “So good, so perfect, your lips on his fat cock. Let it choke you. Gag you. Fuck yes. So good. Your first cock. Isn’t it amazing? You look amazing.” Their partner came down John’s throat and he came all over Mary’s hand. He was twenty-two and never wanted the feeling to end.

He asked her to marry him at a posh restaurant that he couldn’t afford. It was awkward, like they were playing at being adults. Mary, ever the atypical personality, stared at him for a long time with an inscrutable look on her face. She looked down at the petite gold band with the tiny diamond perched above it and smiled. When she looked back at John, grinning, she said, “Fucking hell, I can’t believe this but let’s get married.”

John grinned back and felt like his life was taking a turn towards normality. He would get married, maybe they’d buy a house, have a few kids. He didn’t notice then that his heart was beating too fast for an entirely different reason than happiness.

They got married in a small church ceremony on a freezing February Sunday. They shared a tiny flat in a neighborhood that would eventually become the ‘artsy’ place to live but was downright scary when they lived there.

Mary got a job at a mid-level modeling agency in Fitzrovia named Agra. Very soon she worked her way up from receptionist to Vice President. It was fast and unexpected and more than a bit suspicious.

Mary was extremely secretive about her work and John started to suspect that other factors were at play. She had two mobiles that she thought he didn’t know about. She worked long hours and travelled more and more frequently. John knew she was slipping away. Desperate, he tried to talk to her about their growing distance. She assured him everything was fine and that she was trying to focus on her career so she could someday start an agency of her own.

Weeks went by when he barely saw her. He realized that he was too young to be this bored with life. He missed her humor and her smart mouth. He missed fucking her. He missed fucking, period.

Thanks to his father’s gambling, he had left home at fifteen and couch-surfed in London for a time. He developed a sense for the underbelly of the city. Mary was definitely involved with something dodgy. He was desperate to find out what was going on so he could fix it.

It was during that time that Jack went missing.

xxx

Jack Hamilton, a gorgeous blonde model represented by one of the agents at Agra, would have gone through life unnoticed if it wasn’t for his stunning looks. He was quiet, desperately shy, and appeared to have nothing interesting to say. But John knew differently. He knew it from the one and only time he got to kiss Jack.

Before Mary started keeping secrets, she had invited him to have drinks with a few of the models. John walked through the pub door and spotted Mary with a few blokes at a table. They were all, of course, beautiful. But Jack was perfect. He was immediately drawn to his green eyes, strong jaw, and genuine smile. John sat down next to him. He watched him surreptitiously, not wanting to spook the beauty with an open-mouthed leer, as his heart and cock wanted him to. He was skittish, shy, appeared awkward when any attention was on him. John wondered how he actually did his job.

Jack laughed at the right times, but didn’t speak. John hadn’t even heard his voice yet.

One of the other models, James, sat on the other side of Jack and was flirting openly with him. In his harsh Northern accent, every sentence sounded twice as filthy, dripping with innuendo and suggestion. Poor Jack looked like a rabbit frozen under the gaze of a wild cat every time James guffawed and squeezed his neck. James was either oblivious to Jack’s mortification, or was sadistically enjoying the quiet, young beauty’s discomfort. Either way, John didn’t like it. At all.

John leaned over and said, “Come up to the bar with me?”

Jack, startled, whipped his head around to look at John. John smiled warmly, reassuring.

 _My god_ , John thought, _fucking hell...green eyes._ Jack just nodded.  

Jack followed John to the end of the bar, away from the curious looks from the rest of their party. The bar was crowded and loud so he had to stretch upwards to speak into Jack’s ear. “Where are you from, Jack?”

Jack bent down, and with the most sinful, raspy voice, said into John’s ear, “Glasgow.”

John didn’t fight the full body shiver in response to just one word from this beautiful man. He pulled back and grinned up at him. He raised his voice and said, “I love a Scotsman.”

Jack smiled back holding John’s gaze. John said, “Have you got anyone here in London? Family, girlfriend?” He licked his lips, “Boyfriend?”

Jack watched John’s tongue. “No, no one,” he said, looking up, “It’s just me an’ me new modeling mates.” He rolled his eyes at the word ‘mates’. Clearly Jack didn’t have great affection for his fellow models. Probably especially the obnoxious James, he thought.

“How long have you been here?”

“A few months.”

“Gorgeous bloke like you, unattached?” John shook his head and looked up at Jack from under his lashes. He was well aware that his large dark blue irises lured many a moth to his flame. Jack stared back, mouth gaping a bit. John reached up, brushed his knuckles across Jack’s cheekbones, and softly said, “Gorgeous.”

Jack blinked and looked like he was about to drop to his knees. He said, “Mary,” as John leaned in closer.

“Mary understands.”

A sort of helpless squeak came from Jack’s parted lips as John leaned up and brushed their mouths together. Jack leaned down into it, grabbed his face and kissed him so desperately that John almost laughed. After a short time of exploring each other’s lips with teeth and tongues, John pulled back and stared up into beautiful green eyes. “Beautiful.”

Jack blushed and tried to catch his breath.

“Now tell me about yourself. I know you’re gorgeous and a fantastic kisser, but what else?”

“I paint.”

“An artist too? Incredible.”

John listened while Jack told him all about growing up in Glasgow, riding motorbikes, following his older brother around learning how to be butch. He told him about learning how to draw and eventually paint. It hadn’t come easy but he had colors and pictures inside of him that he could only express on a canvas. He told him about living on his own when he had no family left. He taught drawing to willing young students at primary schools, and willing older patrons at a pub in the heart of the city. He was funny and brilliant and John was charmed. He wanted to kiss him again.

“Thank you, John,” Jack said when the conversation lulled naturally.

“What for?” John replied, genuinely confused.

“Listening to me. I never talk this much,” he smiled.

“Well you should. You’re brilliant.”

“No one thinks that.”

John pushed a bit of Jack’s fringe from his forehead. It was an excuse to touch him again. “Well, I do.”

Jack leaned down to place an impossibly sweet kiss on John’s eager lips.

“C’mon, I don’t want to to go back, but they’ll be wondering where we are.”

Jack nodded. Silent. Back to his default.

When they sat down at the table, Mary looked at them both and let a slow smile form on her lips. Obnoxious James huffed in annoyance. Mary winked at John and Jack blushed. John thought he was adorable.

John never saw him again.

xxx

Months later when they were barely hanging on, Mary casually mentioned that Jack was missing during a rare shared dinner at home. She’d been in Poland for the previous two weeks, or so she’d said. “Yeah, he finished his shoot and left with the photographer’s assistant. The photog said there was crazy chemistry between them.” She smirked, like she was just spreading a bit of gossip.

“But you said ‘missing’.”

She looked at him innocently, a bit too innocently, he thought. “I meant he left for a fantastic shag with a sexy bit of rough. Jealous?” He knew she meant to provoke him with that. _Well, guess what? Congratulations Mary! Consider me provoked._

In his lowest voice, he said, “Of course I’m not jealous.”

“Oh,” she said breezily, “of course not.”

He narrowed his eyes and really looked at her. She was pushing rice around her plate, not looking at him. _Liar. Fucking liar._

As calmly as he could manage, he said, “What’s going on? You’re hiding something. Everything. I know it.”

She had been feigning nonchalance, avoiding his gaze, but at this she looked him in the eye and became very still. The hair on the back of his neck stood at attention. Something was very, very wrong.

“You don’t know anything, darling,” she sneered, her voice cutting and cold.

 _Who is this?_ John’s eyebrows shot up and he sat back in his seat. “Then tell me.”

“Nope.”

“Wha-”

“No!” she screamed, “I’ll not tell you anything!” She stood up from the table and loomed over him. “You don’t know anything, you never will. I’m leaving. We’re done.”

“Mary!” He tried to restrain her by grabbing her arm, but she was too quick.

“No!” She grabbed her coat and walked towards the door.

“Where are you going?” He started towards her.

“Don’t fucking touch me!” she screamed. “we’re not together anymore. You are alone and I am gone.”

John just stood and stared at her, palms out trying to placate her. She steadily looked back at him.

“Why are you saying these things? Why are you overreacting?”

She inched backwards reaching behind her for the door knob, never taking her eyes off of John. He made no more moves towards her and let her go.

He texted and called a hundred times and she never answered him. Three days later the divorce petition arrived. None of their friends would talk to him. Mary got to them first. He wondered sadly what she told them. He didn’t know how to reach her. Her office wouldn’t let him in, wouldn’t tell him where she was, or where she was staying. He was completely helpless, hopeless, and so confused. He stayed in bed for days, sleeping as much as his body and brain wanted.

When his grief waned and anger took its place, he became suspicious that he’d hit a nerve and that she really did know something about Jack’s disappearance. He didn’t want to believe that she would have something to do with crime or a cover-up or both. With no friends, resources, Mary, or anything else he reluctantly gave up hope of ever finding out what happened to Jack. He’d never had Jack’s contact information. He knew Jack didn’t have family and had few friends. He hoped he was wrong, but in his gut he knew something had happened to Jack. Beautiful, shy Jack. One morning after his shower, John broke down, sitting on the tile floor, and cried for him.

He signed the divorce acknowledgement papers, there was nothing else for him to do. In a year they’d be legally divorced. He wasn’t in the country to ‘celebrate’ though. He was already in the desert.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this little look into the boys' pasts. Please come find me on tumblr, I am [onesmallfamily](http://onesmallfamily.tumblr.com).


	9. London Bound

John wondered how Sherlock knew about his short-lived marriage but didn’t ask. Of course the genius knew, just like he seemed to know everything else about John. John sighed, pulled up his contacts, and called Sherlock’s mobile. John rolled his eyes and sighed again after the fifth ring. The infuriating wanker could at least pick up his phone in a timely manner. He was asking for John’s help, not the other way around.

“John.”

John’s stomach flipped violently at the sound of Sherlock’s gorgeous, smooth voice. He hadn’t heard that voice for weeks and he felt it rumble from his gut, through his groin, and down to his toes.

“What about Mary?” He tried to keep his tone impassive, but it came out curt and bitter.

“It’s good to hear your voice,” Sherlock said softly.

John’s stomach fluttered again. He didn’t speak for a long moment. Sherlock didn’t speak either. “It’s good to hear your voice too,” he finally said.

There was a long pause. John could hear Sherlock inhale and exhale a puff of a cigarette.

“Sherlock,” he paused, “I hope we can work together again someday but you made it clear you don’t want to be...friends so I’m not sure - “

“Victor’s missing,” Sherlock said, voice breaking.

John went deadly still and immediately thought of Jack. He didn’t think about Mary or Jack or any of it very often, it had been years and years. But the combination of Sherlock’s words and quiet desperation had the image of blonde hair and perfectly symmetrical green eyes springing to the forefront of his brain.

“We need to meet,” John said against his better judgement but he didn’t want to discuss this on the phone. There were too many instances over the years of clicks and static on his mobile line. He changed phones often but the noises always started up again a few weeks after activation. He’d worked with people over the years on very sensitive projects. He’d suspected many people - his German former boss, Mary, that Russian client, even James Sholto. Lots of powerful and secretive people had trusted him over the years. He knew he was paranoid, but told himself he was just cautious.

“Where?” said Sherlock.

John texted the name of a coffee shop in Jackson Heights while they were still connected, and said, “Now.” Sherlock agreed and said he’d be there soon.

John arrived first, ordered a brewed coffee, and sat at a table in the back corner of the shop. Nervous, excited, slightly annoyed, he fiddled with the tiny sugar packets on the table. He saw Sherlock approaching the shop from down the street, cigarette in his hand as usual. He stared and held his breath, watching as Sherlock dropped his smoke. Before he even entered the shop, he had found John’s eyes through the window. John exhaled a huge breath in relief, or amusement, or both. There was something to this. It was real. They had a connection that John couldn’t deny, at all, any longer. _Well, fuck_.

Sherlock walked over to him and John stood up and held out his right hand. Instead of taking John’s hand, Sherlock put his hands on John’s shoulders, leaned in, and kissed both of his cheeks. “Hello, John.”

“Hello, Sherlock.” John felt his face warming, then heat some more in mortification that he was blushing.

“I’ll just.” Sherlock waved to the counter and said, “Can I get you anything?”

John pointed to his cup. “I’m fine, thanks.”

Sherlock looked at the cup and then looked back to John. They stared at each other for a long moment. Sherlock blinked and shook his head, breaking the spell. “Okay, um, right,” he trailed off. He turned and walked towards the counter.

John sat down with another long exhale. He glanced towards the counter and was quietly thrilled to see Sherlock’s ears and cheekbones were bright pink. He wasn’t the only one affected by this...them.

Sherlock came back to the table with his own brewed coffee. “Hello.”

John just smiled at Sherlock’s own obvious nervousness.

“It’s good to see you.”

“You too,” John said, then added, “You look like shit.”

Sherlock huffed a short laugh. “Yeah, I know. I feel like shit.”

John reached across the table to wrap his hand around Sherlock’s fidgeting hand. “Tell me what’s going on.”

Sherlock had been looking at John’s hand. It only took a moment before his lip quivered and his whole face crumpled.  

John reached his other hand over to cradle Sherlock’s jaw. “Oh, love. Darling. Tell me.” The endearments seemed to make Sherlock weep more. John got up and awkwardly bent over to hug Sherlock’s head to his chest. Sherlock’s arms came up and clung to his back as he silently cried into his jumper. John said, “Shush, love. It’s okay. We’ll find him.” He repeated over and over, “We’ll find him. We’ll find him,” until Sherlock’s breath calmed and his grip on John relaxed.

John stood up and placed his hands on Sherlock’s jaw. He looked up at him with watery eyes. John smiled and said, “All right?”

Sherlock nodded. John placed a quick kiss on his forehead and sat back down in his chair.

“Three weeks without…stimulants” he said quietly, “and I can’t control my emotions.” He lifted his coffee cup and took a large gulp.

John placed his hand over Sherlock’s again, leaned forward, and said quietly, “I’m so glad.” He smiled and felt a tightness in the back of his throat.

Sherlock looked at him, head tilted bashfully. “I haven’t quit forever,” he said, exactly like a true addict, “but I’m trying to see…” He looked as if he wanted to say something else, but he quietly repeated, “I’m trying.”

John nodded. “I want to help. Let me help.”

Sherlock unwound the story of Victor’s secret model boyfriend who had disappeared first. No one knew they were together but it was good and intense and they were about to make it official, go public, tell their friends, and the industry. But before they could, Noah disappeared. Victor was frantic. He desperately plead for Sherlock’s help. They had a lead in Milan that turned out to ultimately be a good one, but they’d been too late. Noah was gone. His agent gave Victor a note written by Noah. It said he loved him but he had to leave for family reasons. He said he’d gone home to Australia, that he’d always love him, but he wanted to make it a clean break.

“That’s the thing, though,” Sherlock said, pushing a hand through his hair in a gesture of frustration. “He didn’t have a family in Australia. He had no siblings and his parents were dead. Victor knew the note was written by him but reckoned that it was under duress. Noah probably wrote that thing about a family knowing Victor would know it was false.”

A tight, cold knot formed in the pit of John’s stomach as he listened to Sherlock’s increasingly frantic and frustrated voice tell the story. He kept his hand on Sherlock’s the whole time.

“He was inconsolable. I didn’t know what to do. We parted ways in Milan but I promised I’d try to help him still. He went back to London. I did as much as I could from here, I tracked down and talked to anyone I could find who knew Noah. As you know, I booked the gig with you, then fucking fell asleep in your bed like a twat…” Sherlock grumbled. “After I...left, I felt terrible so I texted him.”

John lifted his hand away and placed his fist to his mouth. He didn’t want to say anything yet. He found it somewhat gratifying that at least Sherlock regretted leaving his flat that night.

“I didn’t start to worry until a couple of days later. I hadn’t heard from him. I started asking around and no one had seen him. I talked with his agent. My research revealed that one other model from the same agency had disappeared over the last ten years. It’s only one...but maybe there were others but they were orphans like Noah?” He blew out a breath and lowered his face into his hands.

“And the agency is Agra.”

Sherlock nodded.

“What was the name of the other model who disappeared?”

“Gavin Adams,” Sherlock said, looking up, curious.

John blew out a breath and said, “I think there’s another. Jack Hamilton.”

Sherlock looked horrified. “Oh my god.”

He told Sherlock about Jack and what he was like. He told him about their conversation and their kiss. He told him that his disappearance was a catalyst for his and Mary’s breakup. He told him how she basically became a ghost to him and he’d reacted by taking work in some of the most dangerous places on earth.

“I only stopped doing that because I got hurt,” John said, and looked down, “and lost someone very important to me.”

“James.”

John’s head snapped up and looked at Sherlock with eyebrows creased.

“The photo. On your wall. You told me you didn’t want to talk about him.”

“Oh. Yeah,” he said, eyes focusing on nothing out the window.

“Still don’t want to talk about him.”

John looked at him and smiled, “Someday.”

Sherlock nodded and said, “All right. What are we going to do? We need to find out more about Agra. Mary too, I suppose, but it sounds like she won’t willingly speak to you.”

“No, but you’re a model. A damned fine, up-and-coming model with a different agency in a different country. She’s probably chomping at the bit to get at you.” John’s eyes went wide when he realized the implications of what he just said. He stuttered, “Uh...sorry...I didn’t mean it that way.”

“No, John. You’re brilliant! That’s exactly how we get to her. I’ll be bait.”

“What? No. I meant you should try to get information about her from....friends, colleagues. Not put yourself in a position to be...taken, ” he said, grimacing.

“It’s the only thing that makes sense. Now listen.”

John listened reluctantly and scoffed and complained in all of the right places. But he couldn’t help but agree with the beautiful genius. What he was saying made the most sense to get at the powers that be at Agra.

“I have a friend at Scotland Yard,” Sherlock said thoughtfully, “Well, when I say friend…”

John just looked at him.

“D.I. Lestrade. Works in homicide.”

John’s eyebrows shot up.

Sherlock’s eyes focused on the table and his cheeks went a bit pink.

John couldn’t understand why Sherlock knew a homicide detective nor why he appeared to be embarrassed by it. _Unless…_

“Oh.”

Sherlock looked up at him quickly, brows furrowed and eyes flashing a challenge.

“I probably don’t want to know why you know a homicide detective at Scotland Yard.”

“I’ll tell you.”

“It’s okay, you can tell me sometime. But I do know is that you have a bit of a crush on the good detective.” John smiled warmly. He was teasing, but he wanted to lighten the mood, make Sherlock smile.

Sherlock blushed further and said quietly, “Shut up.”

 _There it was, his smile._ John smiled back. He was adorable. It suddenly hit John how young Sherlock really was. His attitude and intellect often hid his true age and John realized he was agreeing to send this beautiful young man into a potentially deadly situation with his psychopathic ex-wife. Instead of panicking, he focussed on coming up with the best plan possible.

“All right, so the esteemed D.I. Lestrade will help us?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

Sherlock began to lay out the details, designing the actions to the best of his ability. His hands waved wildly in front of his face. He touched his lips and brow. He ran fingers rapidly through his curls, occasionally pulling when his words wouldn’t come. He took the salt, pepper, a napkin, and a spoon and moved them around the table, orchestrating the moves he thought they should make and the outcomes they would produce.

John listened. The plan was solid and if they were really lucky they’d find Victor. John looked at Sherlock’s earnest, pleading face and said, “Let’s go to London.”

Sherlock smiled back, relieved. “Let’s go to London.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with this story. Please come find me on tumblr, I am [onesmallfamily](http://onesmallfamily.tumblr.com).


	10. Agra

Sherlock had no trouble getting an appointment with Mary. He was sure Mary thought she could scoop him up and that he’d leave his current agency in the dust. Shad Sanderson was tiny but Sebastian Wilkes was a good agent. There was simply no way Sherlock would leave Seb even if he was a slimy prat. He’d been there since the beginning and he let Sherlock do whatever he wanted.

Mary was expecting him the next day.

Just as the natural light started to dim and the artificial light from the street lamps popped on, they arrived at Sherlock’s flat on Baker Street. John’s eyebrows rose when Sherlock had told the cabbie his address but he didn’t say anything. They arrived just as Mrs. Hudson opened the shiny black front door.

“Sherlock!” she cried and pulled him into a long hug, “It’s been too long, dear.”

He hugged her back and softly said, “Hello.”

When he looked back to introduce her to John, he froze and said “What?”

John quickly shut his gaping mouth and said, “Nothing,” a bit too loudly. His face had been the perfect picture of shock. “Mrs. Holmes? I’m John.”

Mrs. Hudson’s brow furrowed but slowly reached for John’s outstretched hand. She opened her mouth to speak, but Sherlock beat her to it.

“John. Honestly,” Sherlock said disgustedly, punctuating the sentiment with a long, dramatic eye roll. “This is Mrs. Hudson, my landlady. Did you really think I’d still live with my mother?” He couldn’t help but huff and roll his eyes again. He nearly shivered at the thought of it. His mother was lovely, but he liked having the hundreds of kilometers in between them.

“Oh, sorry,” he said, blushing, “Mrs. Hudson.”

“Nice to meet you, John.” She turned to Sherlock and said, “Now go on up. Everything’s ready for you.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock said as he followed her inside. He’d bribed her into cleaning the flat by promising to play cards with her on any three occasions of her choosing. It would be a steep price to pay, but he couldn’t remember how he’d left the place. It wouldn’t do for John to stay in a potentially hazardous, borderline drug den, so he’d called Hudders.

Sherlock opened the door to the lounge and let John walk in first. He looked around slowly turning to look at every detail of the room. He walked towards the window and looked out for a long time, saying nothing. Sherlock went into the kitchen to make them tea.

“Nice place.”

Sherlock jumped. He hadn’t heard John move, but there he was leaning against the doorframe.

“Sorry,” John said and waved his hand at Sherlock, a vague gesture.

“No. Sorry, I’m a bit on edge, I suppose.”

“Have you lived here long?”

“A couple of years.”

John raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips.

“What?” Sherlock started to feel very self-conscious. _Was the flat not clean enough?_ His eyes darted around from surface to surface.

“It’s just…central London. Large kitchen. Wasn’t what I was expecting.”

Oh...John worried about how he could afford the place. Probably he imagined all sorts of nefarious things Sherlock could be getting up to in order to live in a large flat in Marylebone. Off on the wrong foot, again, he thought. He raised his chin and said, “Mrs. Hudson gives me a deal. She’s an old family friend.”

“Mmmm,” John hummed. Sherlock didn’t know whether he believed him or not but if he tried to say anything more, he knew it would sound like he was lying. So he kept his mouth shut.

They were quiet a bit longer as John turned back to walk over to the mantle. Sherlock got their tea and put both cups down on the small table next to his red brocade chair. He gestured for John to sit.

John picked up a teacup and took a small, polite sip. “So,” he said, “a skull. A human one.”

Suddenly Sherlock was irritated. Beyond irritated. He’d been walking on eggshells ever since John thought he still lived with his mother. _How dare John make him feel uncomfortable in his own home?_ “God, John! You must think I’m the world’s strangest person.” John looked startled, he noticed with satisfaction. He knew he should try to keep his emotions tamped down but he was helpless against his own insecurities. “Why are you even here if you think I’m some kind of a freak? Huh?” he huffed.

John sat very still. He did not retreat or lower his eyes. He looked steadily at Sherlock and said, “You should know something about me, I do not respond well to shouting. And I am not judging you.”

Sherlock scoffed and pulled at his hair.

John rose and walked towards him. Sherlock faced him, chest heaving. He felt completely out of control. Angry, helpless, and worst of all, embarrassed. He wondered what it was about this photographer that made him feel so insecure. His very unhelpful brain was trying to reveal the answerto that question ( _you like him, you idiot)_ but he resisted it petulantly.

They stood chest to chest, tension thick between the half-metre space between them. Sherlock’s ire, John’s silent strength, and their mutual attraction connected them and manifested in an unblinking, intense stare into one another’s eyes.

Very calmly, John said, “Do you want to know what I really think of you?”

“No.”

“Well, I think you do.”

Sherlock continued to stare at him, desperately wanting to know but dreading the inevitable ‘childish’ or ‘freaky’.

Instead John said, “I think you are beautiful and brilliant and I really want to be your friend.”

Sherlock deflated. “No you don’t, John.”

“I do.” John stepped closer and pulled him into a tight hug. After a very short (too short, Sherlock’s body asserted) moment, John pulled away and placed a kiss on his cheek. He stepped further away and cleared his throat. He looked unsure, maybe a bit sad. “I’m knackered. Where am I sleeping?” He tipped his head towards the sofa, questioning.  

All they had ever shared was one kiss. If Sherlock hadn’t fallen asleep that night. If he hadn’t snuck out in the early morning hours. If he hadn’t resisted calling or texting for weeks. If he hadn’t been stupid fucking Sherlock Holmes they would know where John was sleeping tonight. But as it was, Sherlock had no choice but to say, “There’s a second bedroom upstairs.”

Quickly, John answered, “Great. Show me?”

Sherlock nodded. John took a last sip of tea and walked into the kitchen to place his cup on the counter. “I really do like your place.” He looked contrite, a bit expectant.

Sherlock didn’t know what he wanted him to say so he simply said, “Thanks.” He turned and started to walk up the flight of stairs beyond the lounge door. John picked up his bag and followed.

“Loo’s in there,” Sherlock pointed. John nodded but didn’t move towards it or drop his bag.

They climbed the stairs and Sherlock opened the door for him. John entered the room, set down his bag, and walked to the other side of the room, seemingly as far away as he could get from Sherlock.

John looked around the room inspecting it as he had the rest of the flat. It was a very plain room. It did not suit John Watson at all.

“Well, good night then.”

“Goodnight, and thanks.”

Sherlock turned and walked down the stairs into his own bedroom. He heard the floorboards creak and things being shuffled on the floor. John’s bag. Shoes off. Clothes off. Into bed. Headboard tapping gently at the wall once. Twice. Adjusting, and then silence.

Sherlock needed to sleep. All he could think of was John Watson, in his flat, in bed. He felt wrong, itchy, restless. His desire kept his brain humming with questions about John’s sleeping habits, his dreams, what he wore, how he would smell. It drove him crazy until his exhaustion won and he finally slept a dreamless sleep.

xxx

They learned everything they could about the Agra offices in Bloomsbury from an internet search. Then they visited D. I. Lestrade at New Scotland Yard, a first time in the famous building for John. They shared handshakes and greetings in his third floor office. “Call me Greg,” he said.

John noticed Sherlock’s slight blush when Greg pulled him into a friendly hug. Greg kept his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and asked, “How are you?” His tone was serious, caring.

Sherlock looked down at his shoes and mumbled, “I’ve been better.”

Greg clapped him on the shoulder once and said, “Your eyes look clear.” His meaning was not lost on anyone in the room and Sherlock nodded his head with a slight smile. John looked at them together, thankful that Sherlock had this man in his life.

“Almost a month.”

“Good on you,” he said. “I’m so glad.” He turned to John and said, “Right. Let’s get to work.”

John nodded. They sat down and talked about every detail, planned for every outcome. They were ready for her.

xxx

Sherlock dressed in fitted black jeans, a loose black jumper that draped off of his broad shoulders comfortably, and Chuck Taylors. A very New York look. When he walked out of his room, John looked at him and said, “Jesus.”

Sherlock frowned, “What?”

“Nothing. Just - ” he stared, eyes roaming up and down his body, “you’re clearly in the right profession.”

His face softened and he took the compliment. “Thank you.”

“You ready?”

Sherlock nodded as he fluffed his hair and patted his pockets making sure everything was as it should be. He grabbed his book and turned to walk down the stairs.

They were quiet during their ride to Agra. Sherlock thought about their plan and felt a small flutter of nerves in his gut. He squeezed the fingertips of one hand with his other, working the cuticles and nails, trying to ground his body into stillness. He thought about Victor and wondered where he was, how he was being treated. He bit his lower lip and chewed the inside of his cheek, working his fingertips against each other.

John moved his hand and rested it over one of Sherlock’s and kept it there for the rest of the ride. He was glad John insisted on going with him and he fidgeted slightly less, but his body remained filled with unspent energy. He turned his hand over to interlace his fingers with John’s. He could see John turn his head to look at him but he looked at their hands and stroked John’s hand with his thumb, over and over again. That point of contact was enough to make Sherlock’s whole body sing with lovely sensation. A crackling warm energy transferred between their skin. That chemistry, Sherlock knew, was undeniable for him. He wondered if John felt it too.

John told the driver to pull over several blocks away from Agra. He held Sherlock’s hand even when paying the cabbie. They exited the car and stepped into a small alley.

John lifted their joined hands and kissed Sherlock’s knuckles just once. “I’ll be right there when you get out, you know I will, right?”

Sherlock nodded.

“I’ll see you in a tick.”

John dropped his hand. Sherlock turned and walked down the alley and turned the corner. In a few short minutes he was there.

A tall, very flamboyant man showed him into Mary’s office. He had the look of a former model. Sherlock took note of his clothing, haircut, hands, accent, and body movements. The receptionist was hiding ten pounds of extra weight around his middle very well under his designer suit coat, concealing dark puffy skin under his eyes with expensive creams, and greying hair with blonde dye. To anyone not paying attention he would have appeared to be in his late twenties, but Sherlock deduced it was more like early forties. “Ms. Morstan will be with you in a moment. May I get you anything?” He smiled and raised his eyebrows.

Sherlock shook his head.

The receptionist blinked several times. “I’ll take that.” Sherlock handed him his book. He hadn’t said much, but the receptionist also had a skillfully crafted London accent. Sherlock suspected his was from the North and was trying to fit in down here.

He left Sherlock alone in Mary’s office. He sat on one of the chairs near the window, crossing one ankle over the other knee. He breathed deeply and willed the tension to leave his face. After almost ten minutes of waiting, he leaned his head back and closed his eyes. He thought about John. He had no idea what to do. He wanted John and he thought John wanted him, but it was clear from John’s avoidance of Sherlock’s bedroom last night and his expressed desire to be friends that nothing would happen between them. It was for the best, Sherlock knew. He felt compelled to protect John from the sure disaster a relationship with him would be. They could work this case together, find Victor, and remain friends and possibly work together again. It was enough, it would -

“Usually people are eager enough to meet with me that they stay awake. I can see that you are unique, Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock’s head snapped up and watched Mary Morstan deliver this line without looking at him. She sat down at her desk, and looked across the large office to where Sherlock sat. He awkwardly uncrossed his legs and wiped his hands on his knees.

“Please, sit,” Mary said, gesturing to a chair in front of her desk. “It’ll give me a chance to watch you walk.”

Sherlock was used to auditions. He’d walked for agents, designers, PAs, and other models. He didn’t know if it was because she’d caught him off guard or because he was currently trying to assess her involvement in the disappearance of his oldest friend, but he felt off-balance and stiff.

She watched him. Her black high-collared long-sleeved dress hugged her body tightly from neck to ankles. She wore shiny black boots with very high heels. Her platinum blonde hair was cut into a short pixie and she wore huge diamond studs in her ears. She looked sharp, powerful, aloof.

He rose slowly and model-walked towards her.

Her lips pulled back to reveal a large toothy smile and he sat.

“Well, now, what brings you here?”

“I’m looking for new representation.”

“Oh? Aren’t you happy at Shad?”

He shifted. “It’s...I...I…” _Come on brain! Get it together!_ He was unaccountably nervous and shaken. They’d talked about this. He knew what his story was, he just needed to say it. “I’d like to get to the next level. Book a big campaign. I don’t know if Shad can do it for me, but I think you could.”

She never stopped smiling the whole time he spoke.

“Well, thank you. Yes, I think I could help you do that,” she said as she sat back. “Tell me about yourself.”

He wondered if she’d looked at his photos. He must have hesitated because she said, “I saw your book, very nice.”

“Thank you.” He wondered if he was easy to read or if she was exceedingly clever. He supposed it could be both. She quirked her eyebrow waiting for him to speak. “I’m from London but I live in New York. I studied chemistry. I want to make as much money as I can, while I can.”

“No girlfriend?”

“Girlfriend? No, not really my area.”

“Oh. Boyfriend, then?”

“No,” he said. He looked down at his hands, “I’m not the easiest man to be with.”

Mary just hummed in response. Then she said, “Are you close with your family?”

Sherlock knew what she was doing. As she tried to find out if he had anyone close to him, anyone who would miss him, he tried to project an image of a detached, beautiful loner. It wasn’t difficult.

“I was,” he replied after a long moment.

She smiled sympathetically. “Well, I think I can do something with you. Walk for me once more.”

He got up and walked back and forth across the large room taking in as many details as he could. When he approached her desk she reached forward to shake his hand. “Nice to meet you Sherlock, I’ll be in touch. Graham has your book.”

He shook her hand and walked out towards the main door to the office.

Graham smiled coquettishly and said, “Nice book,” as he handed it back to Sherlock. The phrase sounded a lot more sexual than it should. Sherlock just scowled and took it from him.

He walked out the big main suite doors slowly but as soon as it closed behind him, he tucked the book into the back of his waistband and sprinted for the stairwell. He flew down the stairs, down a small corridor, then up the stairwell one floor at the opposite end of the building. If he was correct, he’d end up right outside of Mary’s other office door.

The hallway and door were painted a dark grey. He quietly approached the door, crouched down, and placed his ear as close to the floor as he could. He heard Mary’s voice, presumably talking on the phone. He quickly got out his mobile and set it to record, sliding it as far under the door as he could. He sunk back into a corner, staying quiet and listening for anyone else who might come out of the stairwell. After several minutes, he listened again. She was off the phone and he heard Graham and Mary talking. Their voices faded as they walked towards the reception area. He grabbed his phone, stopped the recording and placed it in his pocket.

There was one other doorway in the small hallway. He tried the doorknob. He opened the door slowly, revealing a dark room with nothing but a very sturdy metal bed frame with a thin mattress thrown overtop. He snapped a couple of photos before he shut the door and left down the stairwell all the way down to the ground floor.

He exited a side door into a secluded alley, surrounded on three sides by windowless walls. He walked down the curved narrow road using his instincts and knowledge of central London to make his way towards the main roadway. He breathing came easier the closer he came to the busy street. And John.

He texted “I’m out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please come find me on tumblr, I am [onesmallfamily](http://onesmallfamily.tumblr.com).


	11. Them

They had plans to meet at the Pret on the corner. John had paced on the sidewalk the whole time Sherlock was out of his sight. When he saw him - walking up the sidewalk, tall and lithe, head tilted down but looking at him from under his too-long fringe, lips parted, just a tip of his pink tongue touching his perfect white teeth - he froze stock still right there on the street. He’d never seen anyone more beautiful. He knew then, he had no choice, and there was no other way. The pull was impossible to resist any longer. They’d solve this case and he promised himself that afterward he would initiate the conversation they needed to have. Resolve the tension finally and see where it might lead. The prospect of a chance with Sherlock made him inappropriately giddy. He hadn’t felt this way in a very, very long time.

John knew his eyes were wide, his lips were breathlessly parted, and his fists were clenched, but he couldn’t do anything about that as Sherlock walked up to him and stood one step too close. He looked up into Sherlock’s face and saw the hint of his smile, the crinkle at the corners of his eyes. Sherlock must have seen that he was besotted, frozen with want. John couldn’t think, he couldn’t see anything but Sherlock’s gorgeous face. He said, “You’re killing me.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows knit together in confusion and amusement.

Unable to comprehend why his brain allowed his mouth to speak those words, John overcame his zombie-like state by shaking his head down at the sidewalk. He was going to wait to say anything, _dammit_. “Nevermind me,” John said. “What happened in there?”

He felt Sherlock’s finger touch his chin. Slight pressure under his jaw made him lift his face. He looked up into Sherlock’s blue-green eyes and saw softness and innocent longing. “You’re killing me too, John.”

John decided there would be no more waiting.

“Fuck it,” he said, reaching up to clasp his hands on either side of Sherlock’s head, pulling him down until their lips met. Sherlock’s hands flew up to John’s neck. He deepened the kiss, turning his face, opening his mouth, sliding his hot tongue into John’s eager mouth.

They each emitted small grunts and groans that were probably entirely inappropriate for the sidewalk, outside of the Russell Square Pret windows, at half four, on a Thursday. That wasn’t why their kiss slowed, however. Once John’s large smile, and Sherlock’s large smile, made it impossible to go on, they stopped and stood staring at each other with huge grins and the occasional giggle. It was entirely undignified and they heard, not one but two, tuts directed their way by passers-by. Neither of them gave a toss.

“Been wanting to do that for ages.”

“Take me home,” Sherlock said.

He took Sherlock’s hand and turned to hail a cab. Sherlock huddled close so their arms and joined hands were trapped between them. He turned slightly so he could bend down and place a small trail of kisses from John’s temple and down to the shell of his ear. He pulled John’s earlobe between his lips and John gasped. Sherlock rumbled into his ear, “I want you.”

John’s knees almost gave out and he whimpered embarrassingly. Sherlock huffed out a tiny laugh.

“Bastard,” said John.

“You love it.”

John turned to him and said quietly, “God help me, I do.” He smiled and Sherlock smiled back easily. The next words out of his mouth were totally unbidden and he could have kicked himself for saying them. “This is probably a terrible idea, love.”

A cab pulled up but Sherlock didn’t move. His eyebrows drew together and he stared at John, looking confused and hurt.

“I just mean. Well. Shit.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Nevermind. Forget I said anything. Let’s go.” He climbed into the car but Sherlock didn’t follow him. John raised his eyebrows and reached out his hand. Sherlock just stared at him, face shuttered and his shoulders slumped. “Please, just come with me.”

Sherlock hesitated but John could see his hand twitch as if he wanted to reach for John too.

John looked at him with eyes wide and forehead scrunched, hoping his look translated as _Please, we’ll talk, I promise, let’s go to be alone together at Baker Street._

It worked. Sherlock joined John in the cab although he didn’t take his hand. They sat at opposite ends of the bench seat, not talking. John stole glances to try and gauge Sherlock’s level of hurt or anger or both. Sherlock’s beautiful jaw was relaxed and his eyes half-closed. _Bedroom eyes,_ thought John. He also thought, _Why is this so hard? Why am I making this so hard?_ And it was. It was his doing. Sherlock had been so direct. _I want you. Take me home._ God, John felt like the biggest idiot in London.

“Sherlock,” he said softly.

Sherlock turned his head to look at John. The hope...and the trust...in Sherlock’s eyes shredded John’s thin - tissue paper thin - wall he’d been clinging to all of these months. John reached for Sherlock’s hand slowly and when he didn’t pull away, he took Sherlock’s left hand between both of his smaller ones and raised his fingers to his lips. He kissed each knuckle slowly as Sherlock watched.

He smiled. “I’m an idiot.”

“Practically everyone is,” said Sherlock, voice low.

“You aren’t.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows and opened his eyes wide. John was confused at first, but then remembered that the doubtful look must be indicating his poor decision-making as it pertained to certain illegal substances.

“Oh, right. Yes. Well, you are too. We’re both idiots. So we should be complete morons together.” He kissed Sherlock’s knuckles again.

Sherlock swooped down to press his lips to John’s, apparently ready to move on from finger joints.

Soft. So slow, agonizingly slow. Sliding, wet, slow, wet, hot - scorching, blazing - fevered kisses. John held tight to Sherlock’s hand in one of his and tangled his other in Sherlock’s silky curls. Sherlock fit him, knew him, wanted him, played him, made him want like he’d never wanted anything before. This was not just physical desire. It was that, yes, of course. But this was more. It was a bone-deep want that had John’s brain flashing images, like still photos from a behind-the-scenes movie featurette. Sherlock and John laughing over tea in the early morning light over the scratched dining room table in Baker Street. Them, entwined under piles of warm blankets, fast asleep but somehow John fully aware of that feeling of _home_ and _safe_. Them, arguing over something reckless Sherlock had done. Them, having spectacular make-up sex afterwards. Them, attending glitzy galas where John couldn’t keep his hands from Sherlock’s designer-suit clad body. Them, placing newly framed photos on the mantle beside the skull. Them, holding hands in the park. Them, raising bees in the country. Them, walking their dog as old men. Them. Them. Them.

Instead of running away from these images, these thoughts of _forever_ and _love_ and _oh fuck you’re fucked._ John surged forward and wrapped Sherlock tightly into his arms, kissing him fiercely for a long moment. Until the cabbie tapped the brakes strong enough for them to almost lose their balance. John turned, pulled himself upright, and looked at the cabbie in the mirror. The cabbie looked straight ahead as if nothing had happened. John scowled at him, then looked at Sherlock, who was smirking.

“We’re almost there.”

“Good,” he grumbled, “Bloody terrible driver.”

Sherlock smiled and kissed John’s cheek. John’s irritation left him immediately and he smiled back. He joined their hands together and said, “Almost there.”

xxx

Sherlock estimated that they had three and a half minutes until they reached Baker Street. He continued to hold onto John’s hand and said, “Mary’s involved somehow and I recorded her.”

John tensed slightly, his attentive soldierly demeanor obvious. “What did she say?”

“She talked to someone, on the phone I think, about setting up an appointment for me. I believe that if I go to that appointment, I’ll be the next victim. Of course, with you on the case with me, that won’t really happen.”

“No, it won’t,” John said fiercely.

Sherlock smiled and squeezed his hand. “Quite right. Now,” he said, taking a deep breath, “we can’t do anything more tonight. Graham already texted, the appointment is at eleven tomorrow in Shoreditch. The only thing I don’t know is the address, but he said he’d send it along when the plan was final.”

“Does that sound a bit... I don’t know. Disorganized?”

“Yes, I thought that too. We should be able to take advantage of it.”

John just hummed.

The cab pulled up in front of 221B. “So, here we are.”

As Sherlock paid the driver, John said, “No more casework tonight? Are you sure there isn’t more we can do?”

“No. We’ll visit Lestrade in the morning. Then,” he sighed, “I go model for some bad guys.”

John’s scowled. “All right.”

“Come now. What ever will we do with the next sixteen hours?”

“I don’t know. Can’t think of anything. Have you got Cluedo?”

“John,” he purred and leaned down to kiss John’s jawline and nudged his nose under his earlobe. He reached down with one hand and gave John’s arse a sharp squeeze.

John yelped and said, “Cheeky.”

“Exactly,” Sherlock said, smiling widely. He folded John into a tight embrace on the steps of 221b and buried his face in John’s neck. He inhaled deeply against his humid skin, realizing that John’s scent alone was enough to make him hard. John bewildered him, and fascinated him, and turned him on like no one he’d ever been with. He couldn’t wait to get him naked. “Come on,” he said and dragged John up the stairs by the hand.

He stopped so suddenly in the lounge doorway that John bumped into his back. He quickly turned as John was saying, “What -” He cut him off with kiss. Sherlock pulled John’s smaller frame to his and tightly wrapped his arms around his shoulders, shoving one hand through the hair on the back of John’s head. John reached up and threaded both hands through Sherlock’s curls. They stood there in the doorway, kissing, feeling. John’s hands roamed from his curls to his jawline to his neck then back up to his head. Sherlock, on the other hand, had settled his large hands over John’s bum and was pulling him upwards, squeezing and holding his hips close to his own. The feeling of John’s hard cock, trapped in denim but very prominent, was pushing Sherlock towards desperation. His hands shook, he shivered all over, and his breath came out in quick puffs and pants.

John kissed back fiercely, biting and licking his lips. Sherlock found himself dizzy and his legs wobbled as knees, ankles, and hips forgot how to support muscle and bone. John held his face in his small hands and pulled away. “Sherlock?”

He moaned, trying to convey his desperation, his disorientation. John wrapped one arm around his waist and said, “All right? Breathe, love.”

 _No!_ his brain screamed, _I am not all right. I’ll never be all right again_. “Come on,” is what he said, half-aware of the room, of his body. He was almost entirely in his own head now, swirling with desire and want and animalistic need.

“You’re shaking like a leaf. What do you need, love? Tell me.”

Sherlock realized his eyes were closed tight and tried to relax his face. He opened his eyes to look down into John’s ocean blue ones. He saw concern, a wisp of amusement, and possibly a touch of swagger. “You. Naked in my bed. Now.” He said this with much more composure and authority than he felt. Somehow he straightened and pulled away from John, turning towards his bedroom.

John quickly grabbed his bicep and spun him back around. John pushed his back flush against the door jamb and kissed him again, insistent but so tender. John had his hands wrapped around his waist so Sherlock encircled John’s neck with both arms. Lowering his arms, John rubbed his hands over Sherlock’s arse. John mumbled, “You are so gorgeous. Your arse is criminal.”

Sherlock captured his lips into another kiss. John slid his knee between Sherlock’s and pushed his legs apart. One of John’s hands smoothed down the back of his thigh then pressed his hamstring up so he could wrap his ankle around John’s thighs. In one strong movement, John slotted himself between Sherlock’s thighs, placed his hands on his arse, and pulled his feet right off of the ground. Sherlock gasped at the sensation of being held up by John, erections aligning, and crossed his ankles behind John’s back. John lifted and walked him down the hall, never breaking their kisses.

Sherlock’s head swam. He felt weightless in John’s strong arms. He clung to his shoulders and John supported his weight effortlessly. The strength of John was surprising, devastating. He wanted to feel more.

Between kisses Sherlock said, “Fuck, John.” Kiss. “Fuck yes.” Kiss, a slide of tongues. “Mm, yes.”

“I’ve got you.” John said, as he walked them into the bedroom and stood next to the bed. John looked down at Sherlock’s bed, then back at his face. In an instant, he was bouncing on the mattress and John was looking down at him with a half-smile and an evil glint in his eye.

He blinked and looked down at himself. His jumper had rucked up, revealing a sliver of stomach. He saw the length of his erection laying stiffly along his left hip. He looked up at John and noticed he was in a similar state. Sherlock scrambled to his knees, while whirling his jumper off above his head. He grabbed the hem of John’s jumper and removed it similarly, quickly moving his hands to John’s jeans. He ripped the button open and unzipped the fly before he was roughly shoved back by strong hands pressing to his shoulders.

He awkwardly fell back onto the bed. John, bare-chested and his jeans open, crawled over him. John said, “I want to.” John pressed their lips together and swiped his hot tongue across Sherlock’s again and again. Sherlock did know what John was talking about exactly, but he didn’t care. He wanted whatever John wanted. Their mouths parted once more. He looked up at John’s face, flushed with desire, lips parted, eyes dark and ringed with long blonde lashes. He looked at John’s strong arms holding him above Sherlock, making his triceps bulge. He lowered his eyes to John’s muscular and horribly scarred chest. He catalogued the scar as best he could but his eyes were drawn to the dark red and very thick head of John’s cock protruding from his partly open fly. His mouth watered. God, he’d never been this turned on.

Then John was touching him and he lifted his eyes to meet John’s.

“You’re so beautiful.’

John looked surprised and huffed, “Oh, love. You are.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I think you are.”

“We could go back and forth like this forever,” John said softly.

“All right,” Sherlock answered seriously. John smiled and it was a huge, honest thing that crinkled his eyes and revealed two almost-dimples in his stubble-covered cheeks.

John raised one hand to sweep over Sherlock’s chest then down to the button of his jeans. He tugged the extremely tight fabric, brushing warm knuckles against the trail of short, dark hair on Sherlock’s flat stomach. John’s thumb flicked the button free, watching Sherlock’s face all the while.

John looked down and seemed to notice Sherlock’s laced-up shoes. He put his hand to the center of Sherlock’s chest and moved down his body, hovering his face over the bulge in his jeans. John lowered his face to the hard ridge and placed an open-mouthed kiss over the head. Sherlock gasped and just barely succeeded in not shoving his crotch into John’s face. John lowered both hands to his hips and held him down as he trailed tiny kisses up and down his erection. Sherlock moaned, not believing the strength of sensation and eroticism he felt with this surprisingly obscene gesture.

John finally moved away to trail his hands down to Sherlock’s shoelaces. He shivered at the sensation of cooling fabric on his cock. His shoes and socks removed, John moved back up Sherlock’s body to kneel between his legs. John watched him as his eyes wandered back to John’s erection. John flattened his palm against the head of his own cock covering it from Sherlock’s stare. John’s pleasure at his own touch danced across his face and Sherlock couldn’t wait until his own hand or tongue or...something else caused John’s face to look that way.

John released himself to focus on Sherlock. “These need to come off now.” He looked at Sherlock’s tight jeans and imagined he thought they might be a bit difficult. Nimble fingers slowly unzipped his flies and tugged downward from his waistband.

Sherlock waited for John’s reaction.

“Fuck, Sherlock.”

He smirked and looked down. John stared at his cock which sprung free from the confines of tight black stretchy denim. John wrestled them down, tugging at the fabric until his ankles and feet were finally free. John flung them across the room and said, “You’re trying to kill me.”

Sherlock shook his head no, but was still smirking.

“No pants? In those jeans? All day? Definitely trying to kill me.” John looked at Sherlock naked on his back and licked his lips.

He pushed himself up onto his elbows and opened his legs just a bit. That seemed to jolt John into action. He kicked off his shoes and shoved his jeans and briefs down and off in record time. Before he could predict what was next - his deductive mind was barely functional - John knelt between his legs and had his cock between his lips. John groaned and kept his eyes closed, a look of pure bliss on his face. He sucked and licked at the head tenderly, slowly, as if savoring a coveted prize. Sherlock blew out a sharp breath and dropped his shoulders back to the mattress.

“My god...John.”

John hummed and Sherlock said, “Fuck!” The humming vibrations and the wet demanding movements of John’s tongue were driving him to the edge. He began to shake again.

John pulled his lips away but continued to swirl his tongue around the head, concentrating small sips and licks to his frenulum. He pulled back and said, “I’ve wanted you for so long.”

“I know,” he groaned as John lowered his lips to his cock again. “Fuck.”

John licked around and around for a moment then pushed his lips over the head of Sherlock’s cock, concentrating the increasingly strong suction there. He closed his eyes and put his hand in John’s hair, feeling the short, soft blonde and grey strands at his crown. John hummed again and he shuddered hard. “Fuck,” he said again, extending the word to sound more like a groan. He gripped John’s hair, shivering with the effort not to come. He was savouring the sensation but wanted something more. He looked down and saw John watching him, arse in the air, one hand on each of their cocks. John was pulling furiously at his own erection. He groaned again.

He pulled John’s hair lightly and said softly, “John.”

John lifted off of his cock and stilled both of his hands.

“Come up here.”

John smiled and pushed himself up to kiss Sherlock’s lips. He immediately wrapped John up in his arms. He let his hands roam as they kissed. The feeling of John’s smaller body pressed against his chest, their hips and cocks aligned, John’s legs pressed between his, was comfort and excitement and warm affection. John reached under them and squeezed his arse pressing them closer together. Their erections slid across, around, up and down, together. Their tongues tangled together, wet, slick friction driving him crazy. John placed his hand between them, creating a space for them to align and slide. He gasped when John landed a particularly well-placed thrust. The friction was perfect and he was going to come. He wanted to come with John in his arms, on his body, in his bed. John moved his mouth to his neck sucking kisses from his collarbone to just behind his ear. He heard John’s breath coming faster and felt his thrusts becoming more rhythmic, stronger, harder.

He moved his head to the side so John had better access to his neck. John’s lips on him induced tingles and electric sparks across his skin. He placed both hands on John’s arse and pulled them together, as close as they could get. Their cocks were trapped between them, friction and John’s hand definitely enough to make him come. Which he was going to do. Right then.

“John,” he moaned. “Yes, yes, yes, yes.”

John lifted his head to look into Sherlock’s eyes. “Come for me, gorgeous.”

Sherlock groaned and thrust once more and then he was coming. His brain buzzed and although his eyes were half-open he couldn’t see a thing. Sweet, throbbing tension moved up his legs, through his balls, and pulsated through his stiff cock. He grunted, moaning through gritted teeth, riding out his blissful fluttering climax. He spilled between them, creating more slick, allowing John to thrust faster.

John said, ”I’m going to - “

Sherlock cut him off with a kiss, swallowing John’s moan as his body stilled and his cock jumped against Sherlock’s. He licked into John’s open mouth as he panted and sighed through his orgasm. He bit and licked at John’s lips as he shuddered.

Wrapped tightly together, floating on hormonal clouds of lovely candied chemicals, he felt a bubble of joy burst in his chest. He and John had finally consummated their obvious, mutual lust and it was amazing.

John lifted his head and grinned. “That was amazing.”

Sherlock grinned back. “Are you inside my head?”

“No, but I’d like to be inside something else,” he smirked.

He groaned. “Terrible.”

“I know. Sorry.”

“No, you’re not.”

“No, I’m not.”

They stared at each other. Sherlock lightly ran his hands along John’s back and arms. John brushed Sherlock’s curls from his forehead. After a long moment, and to John’s utter surprise, he quickly rolled them over so he was on top of John. He took John’s face in his hands and quickly peppered kisses all over this face until John was giggling.

John laughed, “You’re insane, love.”

Sherlock continued his assault of kisses and said, “Crazy for you.”

John reached up and they held each other’s faces just staring into each other’s eyes. It was incredibly intimate and sentimental and everything he’d avoided all of his life. He stared back at John’s beautifully soft expression and thought he might have found someone who could love him.

John reached out and slapped his arse and said, “All right, let me up so I can clean up our mess.”

Sherlock placed one last peck on John’s lips and climbed off of him, wincing slightly. He held out his hand to John. John took it and he pulled him to standing, then led him into the small loo. They cleaned themselves up with a flannel found on the edge of the tub. Sherlock tossed it over his shoulder, never taking his eyes off of John. John stared back at him, letting his hands wander over Sherlock’s torso.

John’s eyes raked over Sherlock. He said, “I should have known you would look like this.”

“You’ve seen me without my shirt.”

“Yes, but your arse.”

Sherlock smiled, “It’s criminal?”

“Mm,” John hummed, “Also, your...everything else.” He gestured vaguely below Sherlock’s waist.

 _Was he blushing?_ “Oh my god, you’re blushing,” Sherlock teased.

“Fuck off,” he said, ducking his head.

He bowed his head so he could look into John’s eyes, as he used one finger to lift his chin. “It’s adorable.”

“Fuck off!” John laughed.

“So cute,” he continued, teasing.

“Oi,” John protested, and reached around to smack his arse again.

Sherlock caught his wrist though, and pulled his hand up to his lips so he could place tender kisses along John’s knuckles. “Let me tell you about you.”

“Let’s not.”

“Mmm, let’s,” he purred, turning John’s hand and kissing the inside of his wrist. “Like I said, you’re beautiful.” John made a small noise, neither agreeing or disagreeing. “Your hands are small but expressive. And competent,” he said with a wink. “Capable of inducing strong orgasms.” John made another small noise like a scoff but continued to stare up into Sherlock’s eyes with his lips parted, breath slightly ragged. “Your fingers know your camera’s every switch and dial and button. So sexy to watch you work, John.”

“Thank you,” he said very softly.

“And your eyes. People mistake them for brown, don’t they?” John looked surprised, then tipped his head once in a nod. “Well, they are that gorgeous dark blue you rarely find in nature, except air or water and only in the dead of night.” Sherlock bent down to kiss his lips gently.

He raised his hands up to John’s face, one thumb pressing into the dimple in his chin. He bent down to place a kiss there. “And this is devastating.”

“Oh my god, you’re going to have to stop.”

“Nope.” He trailed his hands down John’s neck and shoulders to his biceps. He stared at the scar on his chest and brought his hand around to his shoulder blade to feel for the larger scar there. John tensed under his hands. “You don’t know how beautiful this is. It’s bravery and loyalty - ”

“And suffering and loss,” John interrupted.

Feeling a bit chastened, he said, “I’m sorry, John.” He kept his hands over the marred skin of both entry and exit wound and kissed John’s lips.

“Don’t be. I’m sorry. You don’t,” he hesitated and looked over Sherlock’s shoulder, “You don’t know.”

“I want to. I want to know everything about you.”

John looked up at him with absolute wonder in his eyes. “You do, don’t you?”

Sherlock nodded.

“Someday I’ll tell you, beautiful.”

“Holding you to that. Now,” he said and placed both hands on his hips. He slid them back and cupped John’s arse cheeks in his large hands. “We must talk about the elephant in the room.”

John looked at him with brows furrowed, confused.

Sherlock tipped his head to one side, widened his eyes, and looked down sideways towards John’s lower half. The indication was clear and John blushed adorably.

“Surely not an elephant.”

“But so big, John,” said Sherlock and moved his hand to palm over John’s soft cock.

“Not that big.”

Sherlock hummed. It was a skeptical noise meant to convey just how wrong John was. His cock was pleasingly long and very thick. Sherlock deduced that it would be average, but he had thrillingly, dramatically, hugely underestimated how very perfectly beautifully above average it actually was. “It’s perfect.”

He moved his hand back to John’s hips and leaned down to kiss him. They kissed in the dim light of his bathroom for long, sweet minutes. He got lost and when John finally pulled away he was almost surprised they were still standing.

“You’re perfect,” John said.

Sherlock scoffed then and said, “You are.”

They stared at each other for a long time before John said, “Let’s go to bed, sweetheart.”

Sherlock took his hand and led him back to bed. They climbed in and curled around each other. Sherlock couldn’t remember the last time he’d consciously shared a bed with anyone for sleep. Maybe he’d never done. But here was John, warm and small and perfectly suited for Sherlock to wrap his body around and settle down for sleep.

“Bed’s comfortable.” John smacked his lips a few times and drifted off to sleep with Sherlock settled along his back.

Sherlock stayed awake for a long, long time just feeling John’s ribcage rise and fall. He wondered, _how did this feel so right?_ Whatever it was, Sherlock wanted to protect it, protect John, and ride this out for as long as John could stand it. Could stand him. He hoped it was a long time. His brain offered the word _forever_ over and over again until he finally slept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please come find me on tumblr, I am [onesmallfamily](http://onesmallfamily.tumblr.com).


	12. Sugar

Sherlock woke up alone. He stretched and felt the space where John should be. Still a bit warm so he hadn’t been absent long.

“John?”

He heard quick footsteps and saw John pop around the corner with the tea kettle in his hand, cord dangling.  _ Was there music playing? _

“Hello, beautiful,” he smiled. 

Sherlock rolled onto his side and propped himself on one elbow, smiling back. John wore only pants and one of Sherlock’s dressing gowns. The luxurious blue silk draped down almost to John’s ankles. Sherlock looked at the tantalizing strip of skin revealed from neck to navel. “Hello.”

John raised lifted the tea kettle and said, “Tea?”

Sherlock nodded, still smiling. He probably looked like a right idiot, but he was just so pleased that John was here. John was in Baker Street, smiling, relaxed, and making him tea. 

John sort of danced away from the doorway back towards the kitchen. 

Sherlock swung his legs around and got out of bed, naked, and walked to the loo. After relieving himself, he washed his hands and splashed water on his face and hair, trying to tame his crazy curls. His blue robe had been hanging on the back of the door, but now John wore it, so he went to his wardrobe and plucked out the almost identical red one. The silk draped cooly over his naked skin, impossibly luxurious. It felt smoother, more sensuous today than it had yesterday. That was impossible, but he felt it. 

As he walked towards the kitchen, the tinny music became louder. He rounded the corner and found John looking into the open refrigerator, one hand on the handle and the other hand drumming air. His hips and legs moved along with the the funky beat. He sang lowly, “Sugar, sugar, I want to be your baby boy, sugar, sugar…” As if suddenly taken by the music, he kicked his foot out, quickly swung it over his other leg, throwing his body into a full 360 degree spin. He threw his hands up and snapped to the beat, hips swinging and head bobbing. Sherlock watched him, inhibitions fully abandoned, dancing with pure joy, no shame, at 8 in the morning in his kitchen. This man. This beautiful, silly, joyous man. 

Sherlock was in so deep, so shockingly, scarily deep. 

John sang, “...no, no, no…” and wiggled his hips exaggeratedly. Suddenly, he spun around and winked at Sherlock, not missing a beat. Sherlock was startled. He had thought John was oblivious to his presence. Another surprise, then.

“Dance with me.”

Sherlock stood still, leaning in the doorway. He let a slow smile grow on his lips as he languorously looked from John’s jitterbugging toes to his beautiful sparkling blue eyes. John’s eyelids lowered and he slowed his hips to a more sensual rhythm as he sashayed over to the door. John took both of Sherlock’s hands and pulled him from the doorframe, spinning him to the side so he could bump their hips a few times. Sherlock didn’t move much, but his smile was huge and he couldn’t stop a giggle escaping. 

John was fun. He was sexy and talented and smart. He was brave and witty and made Sherlock want to be better. Best of all, John actually seemed to like him. 

The music changed to a slower song in the same genre. John pulled him closer and they swayed together to the music. It was a deeply romantic song and he felt the pull of John’s lips. He leaned down and let his desire take over. He kissed John slow and deep as their hips swayed and hands wandered. John placed his hands on his throat and slowly moved them down, parting his dressing gown as they lowered. 

“What have you got on under here?” John murmured between kisses.

“Find out.”

They stared at each other. John hummed and untied his belt. He ran his fingers over his lower belly, humming again when he realized Sherlock was naked underneath. His hands continued downwards, one wrapping around his hip and the other cupping his arse cheek pulling him closer still to John. 

Sherlock stared at John’s mouth, watching as his tongue licked his top lip then his bottom lip. He would be chapped if he kept that up. He wondered how John kept his lips so incredibly soft. John looked up at him and said, “Want you again.”

Again, a slow smile crinkled the corners of Sherlock’s eyes and quirked his lips. He knew he looked keen, and fond, and besotted, but it couldn’t be helped. He stepped forward, crowding John against the countertop. He knew John could feel his hardening cock press into his belly. He said, “I know,” punctuating the statement with a small thrust of his hips. 

John grabbed his hand and pulled him towards the bedroom. “Now.”

Sherlock shuddered and followed, allowing the dressing gown to fall off of his shoulders. John released his hand so it could fall to the floor. Then he hastily pulled his robe off and as he stripped off his pants, Sherlock asked, “What time is it?”

John looked at his watch and answered, “Half-eight.”

“Good. Plenty of time for this, then.” Sherlock pushed John onto the mattress and clambered up to cage him in, holding his arms above his head, straddling his lap. John’s eyes widened and his breath hitched. 

“What?” he asked, breathless. He never took his eyes from Sherlock’s face. He looked stunned, entranced…a bit bewildered. 

“This,” Sherlock declared and pressed his nose and lips to John’s throat just under his ear. He opened his mouth and licked, sucked, bit - tasting, marking, thoroughly enjoying John’s squirming and moaning beneath his treatment of this clearly very sensitive area. He inhaled his own scent mixing with John’s, heightened by biting and sucking, bringing John’s blood to the surface,  a small bruise forming at the base of his neck. 

John groaned and stretched his neck further, giving Sherlock better access. Sherlock moved down and kissed one nipple. He took it between his lips and sucked wetly. He rolled it gently at first, then took it between his teeth and bit. John moaned and thrust his hips up, nudging his erection against Sherlock’s hip. He moved his hands down to John’s hips and held them tightly. With John’s arms free, his hands flew to Sherlock’s hair. He nibbled and sipped at John’s nipple, then the other. 

“God, yes,” groaned John. Sherlock moved his hand to cup his balls and pushed the heel of his palm into the base of John’s cock. He hovered his face over the tip of John’s erection, then looked up at his face. John looked down at him with his mouth open, panting. He kept his eyes on John’s as he opened his mouth and stuck out his long tongue and swiped it back and forth across John’s frenulum. 

“Fuck,” breathed John. His tongue poked out between his lips in an unconscious mirroring of what Sherlock was doing. 

Sherlock smiled and swirled his wet tongue around and around the head of his cock, pushing the foreskin down. John closed his eyes and dropped his head back to the mattress with another quiet, “Fuck.”

He wrapped both hands around John’s thick erection and started a steady rhythm of bobbing his head up and down, twisting his hands around the shaft and head on the upstroke, taking the whole gorgeous thing as far down his throat as he could on the downstroke. John breathed heavily through his nose, moaning and whimpering. He scrubbed his fingers through Sherlock’s long curls, murmuring, “So good love” and “Oh god” and simply, “Yes.”

When Sherlock felt John was close, he pulled off and continued stroking, increasing the tempo just a bit. He looked up and found that John was watching him again. He just couldn’t help himself. He winked and gave John a sly, smug grin. John groaned and as he started ejaculating in long, wet pulses, he grunted, “Oh…my...god.”

He opened his mouth, stuck out his tongue to catch just a bit of John’s come on his tongue. He hummed and licked his lips. As he slowed his hands, he placed tender kisses along the crown of John’s still-hard cock. John shook with full body shudders as he came down from what was clearly a very strong orgasm.

“Jesusyouarefuckingamazinglove,” John slurred. 

He just hummed in contentment and continued to slowly stroke John lightly. John stayed in a sort of trance for several moments. 

Sherlock stopped his caressing and wiped his hands on the sheets. He stared up at John’s perfect chin and hair and arms, chest, cock. John Watson had bewitched him with his talent, kindness, bravery, beauty, and his naturally-sexy self.

While Sherlock had been a bit distracted thinking of John, John had apparently recovered because the next thing he knew he’d been thrown onto his back and was being kissed passionately, deeply. One of John’s hands moved to his erection, the other opened his bedside table drawer and fumbled around blindly.

“You have slick in here?”

“Mmmm,” he agreed, brain fuzzy with pleasure from John’s stroking. 

“Got it,” John declared and sat up. Sherlock whined with displeasure when John moved his hand away. “Just a second, sugar,” John said, with a wink. Sherlock had tried the winking thing, but there was no way he looked as sexy as John when he did it. His cock twitched at the sight.

He watched as John squeezed a bit of lube into his palm and spread it around liberally. John knelt between his legs. He tapped the back of both hands to each inner thigh, encouraging him to spread further. He looked down at Sherlock’s flushed cock and exposed arse and said, “Very nice. Gorgeous.” 

Sherlock watched as he dove in with both hands. His left immediately started on his cock in long, slow strokes from base to tip, adding a small twist around the crown before heading down again. Two fingers of his right hand moved down to slowly circle very sensitive puckered flesh. He groaned loudly and shut his eyes, nearly overwhelmed by the sensation and sight of John’s pleased expression. 

“Yes?” John asked. 

“Fuck yes,” he replied. 

It wouldn’t take long, he was so turned on. Morning testosterone levels were as high as they were going to get and the taste of John still on his lips drove him higher and higher. 

John circled his fingers and pumped his hand. Sherlock watched his face the whole time. He was a picture of concentration, watching his hands, Sherlock’s cock and arse, his face. He looked into Sherlock’s eyes as he breached the tight ring of muscle, probing his middle finger in as far as it would go. 

Sherlock hissed, “Yessss.” 

John thrust one finger in and out a few times, then added a second. By then, Sherlock was writhing, thrusting his hips up into John’s fist and down against his fingers. “Oh, but you are gorgeous, love.” 

He absorbed the praise and moved faster. John responded, trying to keep up with his frantic movements. John’s short fingers crooked, rubbing against his prostate at last and Sherlock’s cock jumped. He came hard, squirming and twitching under John’s hands. 

“I just...fuck, that’s beautiful.”

Sherlock finally gained some kind of control over his body and almost stopped moving. Almost. He couldn’t help the tiny sinuous thrusts back and forth. He would continue to do so until John removed his hands, which hadn’t happened yet, so there you are.  _ God, that was good _ .

John stroked once more and slowly removed his fingers. He leaned up and brought their lips together in a sweet, lingering kiss. John looked at him, keeping his face close.

“I - ,” John said. His face, which had been soft and relaxed, tensed slightly as he did not finish whatever he was going to say.

Sherlock looked at him, eyes wide.

“I’ll be right back.” He placed one last soft peck on Sherlock’s lips and got up and walked to the loo. 

Sherlock stretched and waited for John to return. John walked through the door, hair a wreck, skin flushed, naked. His broad cock hung low and heavy between his legs, framed by a short, surprisingly dark, patch of hair. He was not a large man but he walked as if he was seven feet tall. Sherlock envied his confidence, adored his brazenness, and wanted him with every molecule in his body.

“That was fantastic, but we should eat.”

Sherlock made a disdainful noise. He wanted to stay in bed. Hold John in his mouth until he was hard again. Let him fuck and rut and come down his throat...say filthy things that made him blush. But he knew John was right, they had a meeting. They had to get ready. 

He thought of Victor. His friend, his first friend. “All right.” He swung his feet off of the bed, went to John, and pulled him into a soft embrace. John reached for him too and held on tightly. They hugged for a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come find me on tumblr, I am [onesmallfamily](http://onesmallfamily.tumblr.com).


	13. Taken

John showered and Sherlock pretended. He pretended that he wasn’t nervous. He pretended that he was getting ready to have a meeting with anyone other than Agra. He pretended that he wasn’t driven to distraction by a naked John Watson in his shower. He pretended not to see the photograph.

After long moments of chewing his toast and sipping his tea, he put his cup and saucer down and slowly crept past the bathroom door, back into his bedroom. There it was. John’s overnight bag, stylish (Jack Spade) but not too expensive. Masculine (grey canvas) but not without some flair. And right there, in the back pocket, a small triangle - the corner of a photograph. He had seen it the night before and he had seen it this morning. He pretended not to see it. He wished he hadn’t because his curiosity was getting the best of him.

He knew what it was. He recognized the colors in the background. Black, dark black, with yellow sunlight highlighting dark curls. From their first photo shoot together. He wondered why John had it. He wondered if it was a forgotten proof stuffed into the side pocket of his work bag. He pretended he wasn’t staring at it from his bedroom doorway.

A small eternity passed while he stood and pretended not to see the blue-yellow-black of his own curls on 10 x 15 glossy paper.

 _Fuck it._ He strode across the room just as he heard the taps shut off, snatching the photo from its pocket with long fingers. The first thing he observed was that there were no other photos in the pocket. He held the paper in his hand and looked. He couldn’t pretend anymore. Here was evidence that John, beautiful John, had printed a photo of him - THAT photo of him - and kept it with him.

He remembered the moment perfectly. Looking down at John in that moment, he had felt dope sick, sweaty, and confused, but he’d also felt affection and curiosity and longing. Such longing for a man he’d only met an hour previous. He remembered thinking _I have to touch him_. And he did. The photo was indescribably intimate and captured Sherlock looking...happy. He smiled at the memory.

“Your turn.”

Sherlock startled and turned. John looked completely unsurprised that Sherlock was holding the photo.

“You printed this.”

John nodded.

“You carry this in your bag.”

He nodded again, lips curving up in a gentle fond smile.

Sherlock looked down at himself and said quietly, “This was the first day we met.”

John walked towards Sherlock, nodding. “You’re so beautiful and you look so affectionate in it. It comforts me when I look at it.” John seemed a bit embarrassed, but kept speaking in a gentle, calm voice. “I remember you touching my face. You made quite a strong first impression.”

Sherlock reached out for John with his other hand, pulled their hips together, and looked down into John’s eyes. “So did you.” He leaned down to kiss him softly, a few short pecks to John’s soft lips.

“Please be careful today, sweetheart.”

“I will, John.”

“I’ll be there the whole time.”

“I know.”

xxx

“This is hideous. I wouldn’t wear this.”

“It’s the best we have.”

“Well, it’s ugly. Find something else.”

“The range is better than anything else we have.”

Sherlock held the belt between his thumb and forefinger and tried to hand it back to Lestrade.

“Nope, you are wearing that.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “She’ll spot this in five seconds. She’s an agent for _fashion_ models.”

“Wear a shirt over it. She never has to see it,” Lestrade insisted.

He watched John as he lifted the hem of his dark red terry sweatshirt. John’s eyes immediately latched onto the skin revealed and they lingered there. Sherlock put on the horrid black belt with silver buckle. He wondered if it was even real leather.

When he finally had it fastened and tugged his sweatshirt over it, John looked up to meet his eyes. John shook his head and rubbed the back of his neck self-consciously. Sherlock smiled knowingly which made him blush. _God, he was adorable._

“All right, I’m going to just go,” Lestrade said, gesturing towards the door, “and you just speak normally for a few minutes. Well, as normal as you can for you,” Lestrade said, smiling at his own barb.

Sherlock rolled his eyes as Lestrade left the room.

John said, “I don’t like it.”

“Neither to I. It’s not even real leather.”

It was John’s turn to roll his eyes. “Not that,” he paused, “Well, maybe exactly that. She’s going to be able to tell that’s not a belt you would ever wear.”

“I know,” he agreed, “I’ll try to hide it from her, and if she does see it maybe she’ll think I’m being ironic. After all, this terry shirt is sort of seventies retro.”

John ran his hands down from his shoulders to wrists. “It’s soft. I like it.”

Sherlock leaned down and gently kissed his lips. “I like you.”

John kissed him back, so soft. He looked into his eyes and said, “I like you, too.”

Sherlock looked at him for a lingering moment, wondering how it was possible to feel so much at once. Peace, calm, affection, desire. And when he thought of their mission, dread and fear. His stomach turned with it.

John placed his hand in Sherlock’s and they went to find Lestrade.

xxx

Sherlock leaned his head against the glass and placed his knuckles to his lips. He remembered the kiss John gave him before saying, “Until later.” Sherlock just nodded and climbed into the cab. If he had said what he really wanted to...well, maybe there’d be time for that later.

Traffic was a nightmare. He was eight minutes late. When he arrived, he walked through the discreet barely-marked doorway to speak to the woman behind the desk. She could have been a model herself with wavy brown hair, large black eyes emphasized by thick but groomed eyebrows, and skin almost as pale as his own. She looked at him with a pleasant smile and waited for him to speak.

He tamped down his nerves, wiping his palms discreetly against the back pockets of his jeans. He schooled his face into his most placid expression, posing as the vacant model for this woman. “I’m here for an appointment with Agra.”

The woman’s face broke into a huge friendly smile. “Oh, yes, Graham told me you were coming. Welcome to Shoreditch House.”

He nodded his thanks.

“Follow me, I’ll take you to him.” Out of seemingly nowhere another tall, beautiful woman came to stand behind the reception counter. This one paid them no mind and Sherlock followed the first one up the stairs.

Shoreditch House was a warm, well-appointed private club that reminded him of a comfortable beach house but was huge and rambling. Every room was full of intimate spaces with comfortable looking lounge areas. There were several bars and a few rooms had intimate round tables where people were dining. The woman took him to a very small room with only a few couches and soft music playing. Two of the walls were floor to ceiling windows, making the room perfect for a photo shoot. He wondered if he would actually be modeling.

“Please, make yourself comfortable, Sherlock. Can I get you anything? Tea?”

It unnerved him, her calling him by his name. “No, thank you.” Even though the plan was to actually get himself… taken…or almost taken...he’d rather try to stay awake. So no drinks, thank you very much.

She left the room with a nod. He looked around and started talking to his belt.

“Small room,” he said lowly but loud enough for Lestrade to hear, looking out the window, “Facing southwest. Third floor? I’m not sure, the staircases and hallways are rambling in this place. Two women working the front desk and I’m supposed to be meeting Graham here. There’s the open doorway I walked through and that’s it. No hidden room or closet or anything. Whatever they are going to do, they’re going to do it out in the open.”

He heard footsteps coming down the hallway. _Graham._ One last thought, he said, “So maybe not drugs? How would they get me out unnoticed if I’m passed out?”

Graham entered the small room. “Sherlock! Hello,” he enthused. Before Sherlock could protest, Graham had embraced him and placed air kisses on each cheek. It took all of his usually inconsiderable self-control to not roll his eyes.

A very petite woman with beautifully pale skin and naturally jet black hair walked into the small room behind Graham. “This is Akari, the photographer.” She wore a long white t-shirt over black leggings and shiny yellow pumps with outrageously high heels.

Sherlock held out his hand and she took it lightly, exchanging quiet hellos. Akari stared at his face, eyes roving from hair to eyes to lips and all around again. He was quite used to it. The staring had been happening since he was fifteen. He flushed at the memory of John doing it when they first met months ago. John, never far from his thoughts. He ruthlessly pushed those feeling down, hoarding them, hiding them, for a later, more appropriate time.

Akari said, “It’s going to be a pleasure to shoot you. Please, make yourself comfortable here.” She indicated a soft chair near one window.

Graham said, “I’ll just leave you two then. If you need anything…” he trailed off.

Her voice was soft and her face was so beautiful, he felt immediately at ease. _Maybe she was really a photographer? Maybe nothing would happen to him today? How on earth was a woman who barely weighed seven stone - wearing those shoes - going to hurt him?_ He allowed himself to relax slightly, but remained attentive for the likely possibility that others would join them soon. For now, however, it was just Akari and him.

She picked up her camera from a large bag tucked in the corner of the room. She calmly, quietly directed him as she took photo after photo. His body knew what to do, he was a professional after all. His mind was quiet and he found himself actually enjoying the small bubble of pose/shutterclick, pose/shutterclick, that they had created. She directed him, shooting face and body, until he ended up basically lounging sideways in the chair, heavy-limbed.

A quick rap on the door took him from relaxed professional model to alert undercover target. He looked up to see Mary walk through the door. She was dressed in a cap sleeved black shift dress, black platform heeled pumps, and short leather gloves that barely reached past the middle of her palm. She looked at him with a fierce intensity before relaxing her face into a clearly fake smile.

“Hello you,” she said, falsely cheerful.

He stood. “Ms. Morstan. I didn’t know you would be joining us.” That was true. He thought maybe she’d be watching remotely but he never thought she would actually show herself at the scene of the crime to be.

“I usually don’t, of course,” she said breezily, dropping her bag and pulling out an envelope. “But you’re special, aren’t you, Sherlock?” Her large dark green eyes hard set, staring directly at him.

 _The game_ , he thought, _is on_.

He smirked, hoping he projected a calm he did not feel. Butterflies fluttered in his gut and his heartbeat pounded in his ears. “Am I? How so?”

She gave him a withering look as if she wasn’t fooled at all by his act. “Oh, you know,” she smiled.

“I really don’t.”

“Here, read it for yourself.” She handed him the unsealed envelope.

He pulled a piece of paper, folded white cardstock, from the envelope and said, “What is it?”

“I hoped I wouldn’t have to do this,” she whispered.

In his mind he thought he said _Do what?_ out loud but he couldn’t be sure the words actually emerged. He narrowed his eyes as his vision blurred. There was nothing written on the card. _Why was she whispering?_

“What are you….” He lifted the card to his nose and inhaled deeply. He pulled the paper away from his face but not quickly enough to stop the sharp sting to his nasal passages. He sank to his knees as she coldly watched. “J-…” he trailed off.

She folded her arms and said softly, “There you go.” She made no attempt to help him to the ground.

He felt all of his limbs go numb. He knew he was supposed to be saying something, calling someone. _Wasn’t there someone listening to him? Where were they?_ As his vision went fuzzy and sharp, fuzzy and sharp, he felt hands at his belt, tugging and slipping it free from his jeans. He tried to say something, yell ‘no’ or ‘help’ or something. His jaw wouldn’t move, he couldn’t move his lips. Heavy. And so sleepy.

Just before darkness creeped in, he saw two very large men dressed in casual summer clothing, shorts and linen button-downs, walk through the doorway, and Mary frowning down at him with a tacky faux-leather belt dangling impotently in her hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please come and say hello on Tumblr at [onesmallfamily](http://onesmallfamily.tumblr.com) and Twitter at [tinyblood221](https://twitter.com/tinyblood221).


	14. Held

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tag update - these last few weeks in US politics have been particularly triggering for so many people, including me. In my head, in this story, Sherlock has always been sort of leered at and a few times touched by creepy men. His backstory doesn’t not include assault, however, please heed the new tag. Trigger warning: implied non-consensual touching (on arms and back) by creepy men to a young teenaged Sherlock. It’s merely a mention, it isn’t overtly sexual or violent at all. I just want you to be safe and take care of yourselves and each other.

“I don’t like this, Greg.”

“Well, we didn’t know if she’d show up, yeah? Maybe this will be…” Greg stopped abruptly.

They stared at each other, eyes wide, as Sherlock stopped speaking in full sentences.

They heard a thud and fabric rustling.

Next there was scuffling and Sherlock moaning as he was being moved, presumably. As he felt his stomach drop, John hadn’t felt as helpless since lying in a hospital bed waiting for news of James and his men. He listened in horror as a whispered conversation barely made a sound through the speaker.  

John’s hatred for Mary burned hotly through his limbs to settle in his gut.

“Shit, shit, shit,” Lestrade said, punching at his phone screen, then lifting it to his ear. “Get eyes on him, now!”

His own heartbeat in his ears drowned out the sound of Greg yelling at his field team. He lifted his hands to his open mouth and looked at nothing. They’d lost him. They were listening, everything sounded normal. They could hear him clearly. They heard the photographer, the assistant, everything. Then Mary showed up. It was strange hearing her voice again after all of those years. He actually felt nauseous listening to her patronizing tone as she called him special. Hearing him start to say “John” as he must have been falling.

The feed went silent. Nothing would be recorded from a discarded belt left in an abandoned room.

It took John a full minute to recover from the shock, the helplessness. When he overcame his paralysis, he whirled around to look at Greg who was hanging up his call.

“Well?”

“He’s not got a tracker or wire anymore, but we have the building surrounded. They’ll never get him out without us knowing.”

“I want to go there.”

“I figured you would say that. But I shouldn’t even have you in the room with me, much less driving you down there.”

John crossed his arms across his chest and quirked the ends of his lips upwards in a menacing half-smile. He glared and said, “We’re going there.”

Greg didn’t look happy about it but he said, “Come on.”

xxx

Pitch black. His eyes were open. He blinked. He blinked again.

He stared into the darkness, eventually rods and cones picked up faint light, a bit of color. He was on his side, head on the floor. Hands restrained behind him. Ankles restrained too.

When he tried to move his neck, tried to look around him, he could not. His brain’s signals were not reaching the muscle and bone. He closed his eyes.

xxx

It was chaos. Lights flashing from four - no five - different police cars. The faces around him were either grim or contorted and shouting.

They’d lost him.

She’d gotten him.

Lestrade had gotten the call while they were in the car over. John heard something about a basement, an underground tunnel, and getting a bloodhound. A red hazy fog had blurred his vision and he was having a hard time concentrating on anything as he exited the back seat.

He wanted to see the last place they knew Sherlock had been.

As if Greg knew what John was thinking, he led them into the main door of the Shoreditch House. Although they had no idea, they were greeted by the same two women at the front desk that had let Sherlock into the building. John had a very hard time not screaming into her beautiful face.

“You saw him,” he said, tension thick in his throat, making his voice sound like a growl.

“He was here for an appointment. Graham told me he was coming and where to take him and that’s what I did. I was in and out of here since then. A few people came and went but I don’t believe any of them was your friend.”

As she spoke, John clenched and unclenched his fists at his side. He stared at her, unblinking. Lestrade took notes but noticed her voice getting quicker and higher pitched during this speech. He looked over at John.

“Hey mate, maybe leave the questions to me?” He raised his eyebrows and hands in a non-threatening gesture.

John blew out a sharp breath and turned, enraged and his patience gone. “All right. Fine. I’m going upstairs.”

“Sir! You can’t - “

John’s glare was so murderous, so frighteningly full-body, that she stopped moving or making a sound immediately.

Lestrade held his hand up and raised one finger at John. John huffed again, but didn’t move. “Miss, we need to go upstairs. Please make that happen.”

With wide eyes, she said, “All right, please give me one minute.” She quickly left through a side door and another tall beautiful woman came out.

“I’m Eve. I’ll take you.”

As they ascended the stairs after Eve, John muttered under his breath. “As far as I’m concerned, every one of these hipster fucks are suspects.”

“We have the place locked down. We’ll question everyone.”

John rolled his eyes and raised his voice, “Right! Locked down!”

Fuck. _Fuck._ They’d lost him.

Breaths came raggedly as he tried to remain in control. He wanted to lock every one of them in a room and scream and hit and strangle until one of them gave Sherlock back. His heart raced dangerously as the adrenaline and cortisol and caffeine from their morning coffee pumped through his tightening veins.

Rage clouded his thoughts, but he needed to think. Needed to think for Sherlock. Needed to think like Sherlock. He concentrated on the blue plates hanging on the walls of the stairwell. He counted every one, blinking and concentrating on long exhaled breathes through his mouth.

They wound their way through several bar, restaurant, and lounge areas until they reached a small room. The first thing John saw was the discarded belt on the carpet. He reached down for it, but Greg placed a hand on his forearm to stop him.

“Evidence.”

“Right,” he sighed.

Greg took gloves and a plastic bag out of his coat pocket and carefully collected the belt. “We know she’s on this.”

“She knows she’s on it, too. She’s not stupid.”

“Sherlock was clearly disoriented and now missing.”

John glared at him.

“Temporarily missing,” Greg amended, “We’ll find him and we’ll find him soon.”

John exhaled forcefully through his nose. “She’ll say he was sick. That he fainted. That she helped him leave or some such bollocks.” He spoke with quiet desperation, “We have to find him, Greg.”

Greg clapped a strong hand on his shoulder and said, “We will.” He pulled out his phone again and began to gather information about locked doors, witness interviews, and potential leads on where a room full of people went so quickly with a 6-foot tall unconscious man in tow.

When two forensics technicians entered the small space, John stood there watching them. He felt completely helpless, he imagined he could still feel Sherlock in the room. He still heard his impossibly deep voice, raised a few octaves, saying “What are you…” before it trailed off. John watched as the technicians took fingerprints from every available surface in the room. John looked around. There was nothing more to see. Just his imagination filling in the picture of Sherlock laid out on the carpet, helpless and trying to say his name. _Goddamnit!_

John stood there, mind sluggish with powerlessness. Greg approached him again. “They’ve got all they need. The building is clear, they’re not here. No one knows anything. Let’s go back to the Yard.”

John could only nod and follow Greg back down the way they came in.

xxx

Itchy. His eyelids fluttered. His whole face felt hot. The skin around his nose and mouth was tight and prickly. His eyes were irritated by every movement of his eyelids. Slowly, as he regained his ability to observe, to think, he realized two things. He must be allergic or sensitive to whatever Mary drugged him with, whatever chemical was on that damned piece of paper. And he was in a moving vehicle.

His body jostled and swayed with the bumps on the highway, they were travelling at a high rate of speed. He blinked and blinked, trying to clear his vision. When his eyes were briefly open, he only saw blurry images of the back seat of a large luxury sedan. He was on the floor, hands still tied behind his back. Mercifully, his legs were unbound.

He tried to sit up to look out the window, but his unsettled stomach rebelled while his head pounded. He wondered what kind of drug she’d given him. He was fairly experienced, but didn’t know what this particular drug was. He laid his head back down and took several breaths, willing his nausea away. After a long moment, he tried again. This time he moved more slowly, categorizing every pull, twist, and twinge of pain. He looked out into the darkness and realized they were headed north on the A40.

Troubled, he tried to focus on his location. _They should be more careful._ He wondered why they were letting him see his location? Why had they taken off his ankle restraints? They must be exceedingly confident that they were going to get away with this kidnapping and whatever transaction they had in store for him.

Sherlock did not know where they were headed but North London was full of industrial areas and business parks.

His head, wrists, stomach, legs, neck, arms, everything hurt. He let out a soft moan as he lowered himself back onto the floor. There was nothing to do but wait.

xxx

“How long will it take?” John said as they walked into Greg’s office.

“We have our best in-house person on it. She’ll find a match, if there is one, in a couple of hours.”

That sounded fast to John considering the number of prints they must have found in that room. They were lucky it was morning and the room had probably been thoroughly cleaned before Sherlock or anyone else walked into that room.

“I have my best people searching every corner, in and out, of that building. Let’s go get something to eat while we wait.”

“Not hungry,” John said.

“Coffee?”

John looked at Greg. He saw remorse and worry in the lines of his forehead, and concern in his eyes. Concern for Sherlock, but also for him. He’d been about to burst all day long. He wanted to shout and cry and punch something very badly.

“All right.”

They walked down to the cafe and took their coffees into the courtyard. They sat at a small table with Greg’s mobile face up between them. They sipped in silence for a long time. John knew Greg was watching him. Adrenaline had worn off and he hope the caffeine would focus his mind. But the truth was he was worried sick and the tremor in his left hand was coming back. He hated to think that all of his post-traumatic stress syndrome symptoms would return. He silently vowed not to sleep (no dreams) until Sherlock was found.

“Sherlock didn’t tell me how you two met.” John’s stated, but they both knew it was an inquiry.

Greg looked relieved, like he wanted to talk about Sherlock, but not his disappearance. He smiled fondly into his paper cup. “I arrested him.”

John’s eyebrows shot up. He wasn’t all that surprised that Sherlock had gotten into trouble with the law, but he was surprised at how amused Greg looked.

“He was one of a dozen or so beautiful young things at an after-hours party. MDMA, coke, various pills. We had a tip that the woman running all of the illegal drugs in Central London was going to be at this party. So we gather all of the evidence. Undercover work and surveillance recordings, lots of hard work to get that stuff. And we raid this place. Sherlock was there with a woman who fit the description of our kingpin. We arrested them.”

“Was he involved? Was the woman guilty?”

“Well. I had the ‘good fortune’,” he emphasized the last with finger air quotes, “to interview young Sherlock.” He smirked. “He’s such an arsehole.”

John smirked right back. He knew Sherlock could be difficult. An arsehole. Too bloody smart for his own good. But also sweet and loving and surprising and warm and interesting and sexy.

“He deduced everything about my shite marriage, my ambitions on the force, my crush on the forensic technician. He just knew everything. But he wasn’t involved.” Greg paused, lost in thought for a minute.

“What about the woman?”

“The woman he was with turned out to be his landlady. Had nothing to do with any drugs,” he paused. “Well, actually, she had quite a bit of cannabis on her but she insisted it was for personal use and I guess I believed her.” He huffed out a laugh.

John said, incredulous, “Mrs. Hudson?”

“Yeah, that’s her. Do you know her?”

“Yeah, we met.” John didn’t elaborate on his embarrassing first encounter with the woman.

They sipped their coffees and looked at Greg’s silent mobile phone.

Greg said, “So you’re a photographer. But how did you...you know...get involved with Sherlock?”

John sighed. “Yeah.” He paused for a long time. What was it with him and Sherlock? How could he explain this to Greg? He didn’t know if he understood the immediate chemistry and attraction enough to articulate it. “I met him. I thought he was beautiful, of course.”

Greg nodded.

“He has a bit of a crush on you, you know.”

Greg said seriously, “Nothing has ever happened between us.”

John looked at Greg’s face and believed him. Not that it mattered anyway, but he was somehow relieved about that bit of information. He thought maybe Greg was flattered or also harbored feelings for Sherlock. But he wouldn’t delve deeper. “I thought he was beautiful. And smart and dangerous. I mean, what a stupid thing for me, a photographer trying to make a name in this business, to get involved with a young drug-addicted model. How cliche,” John scoffed.

“But he’s more than that, isn’t he?”

“Yes,” John breathed out. “He’s everything.” He pinched the bridge of his nose and breathed out slowly. “I’m probably in love with him and he doesn’t know and I just…”

Greg reached out his hand to clasp John’s forearm. “We’re going to find him. And Victor. And we’re going to arrest that ex-wife of yours for kidnapping and trafficking and whatever else we can throw at her.”

John nodded but felt less than convinced. He’d have to put on his soldier face, his confident Captain’s attitude to deal with this.

Greg’s phone chimed with a text. They both looked at the message between them on the table.

**From Jane (13:12) : Fingerprint match. Come now.**

xxx

Sherlock had not gone back to sleep, but had kept his aching eyes closed and tried to breathe slowly. When the car pulled onto a smaller road, he struggled to sit up so he could see where he was. They were pulling into a business park, just as he had deduced, when the window screen went down and the driver sing-songed, “We’re here, darling.”

Sherlock shivered at the mocking endearment, laid his head back down, and closed his eyes. Creepy men had been leering at him and generally being inappropriate with him since he was fourteen. He had never been all-out assaulted, but one of headteachers had called him ‘darling’ while touching his arms and back without his consent. The word made his skin crawl.

The vehicle stopped, the car door opened, and a very large man tugged sharply on his curls. He stopped himself from crying out at the very last second. The man pulled him out of the car and stood him upright. He walked him quickly into an office door. Through his watery eyes, he could see it was a regular office with desks and windows and doors.

The man opened a door that looked slightly more reinforced than a typical office door and shoved Sherlock into the dark room. He heard a soft snick behind him as it closed. He turned and awkwardly tried the handle with his bound hands. Of course, it was locked. His blurry vision had improved slightly, but the room was so dark he couldn’t see anything anyway. Starting at the doorway, he felt the walls until he found a switch. Sickly fluorescent light flooded the room, followed by a quiet moan. He whipped his head around and took in the room. It was large, with several doors, no windows, a desk and chair, and a small filing cabinet.

Crumpled in the corner behind the desk, he saw what looked like a body completely covered with an old blanket. Cautiously, he approached the bundle and noted the motion of very rapid breathing. He heard another very quiet moan coming from one end of the blanket.

“All right?” Sherlock croaked out, barely loud enough to be heard.

There was no response from the blanket.

Sherlock jabbed his toe into the figure. He thought it was a hip, probably.

The figure immediately threw off the blanket and cowered away from him, scooting several feet back until he sat in the corner with his knees tucked up towards his chin. The man looked at him, unblinking and terrified. Sherlock knew those eyes as well as he knew his own. Relief and sheer terror washed over him simultaneously.

Victor.


	15. A Lead

Sherlock backed away two steps. Victor looked at him, but there was no recognition. He looked terrified. There was evidence of a severe beating some days ago. Dark purple bruising turned green and yellow around his throat, down one side of his face from temple to jaw. The sclera of one eye was black with pooled blood.

Sherlock sunk to his knees, Victor’s eyes never left his. “Trev,” he said quietly.

Victor tilted his head to the side in contemplation and blinked rapidly. Sherlock’s brows knitted together as Victor winced in pain.

“It’s me, Trev.” He scooted forward a bit, but Victor rounded his shoulders and sunk slightly as if threatened. Sherlock relaxed his face and tried to smile. He needed to stay still and just wait.

After a few long moments, Victor’s dark brown eyes narrowed and his eyebrows pulled together. “Holmes?”

Sherlock smiled and sighed in relief, “Yes, it’s me.”

Victor jumped to his feet, ran (with a pronounced limp, Sherlock noted) to the farthest door, and yanked at his too-long hair. He spun around and yelled, “Holmes! You cannot be here. I won’t allow you to be here. Leave me!”

“Trev. Trev.” He would have held his hands in front of him, but tied behind him they were limp. He would look like he was hiding something. Not very comforting for his frightened friend, he thought. He turned his body slowly but kept his eyes on Victor, trying to compose his face into a reassuring expression. “See? I can’t leave you. I wouldn’t anyway. We have to get out of here together.”

Victor’s eyes were wild and he scoffed, “Fuck!” He began pacing and muttering beneath his breath. Sherlock took the time to observe his condition. He’d been missing for almost two weeks. His hair was greasy, his clothes torn and bloody. So heart-breakingly thin.

“I’ve tried,” he said miserably, “There’s no way out.”

Sherlock, still seated on the floor, scooted a bit closer and said softly, “Trev? Please.”

Victor turned to him and they stared at each other for a long moment. “Holmes,” he moaned.

“Come here.”

Victor dropped down and embraced Sherlock. They sat together rocking and burying their noses into each other’s necks. “I’m so glad you are here,” Victor said. “Wait, no I’m not. God, Holmes, why are you here?” He pulled back and said, “I think Noah is here. There might be others and we’re all headed to the Middle East. They had to leave us here because of the beatings. They couldn’t move me.”

Suddenly enraged, Sherlock spat, “I’ll kill them.”

“You’re in no position to do anything now, you stupid…” Victor trailed off and his lip quivered as he looked at his friend.

“What did they do to you? How long have you been in here?” He looked around the small room again.

Victor’s face dropped and he started crying. He put both hands over his face and cried, “Not you, Holmes. God, not you.”

“It’s okay, please, listen,” Sherlock pleaded with his friend. All hope was not lost. He needed to convince Victor to pull himself together. They would get out of there.

Victor slowly lowered his hands from his face and looked at him.

Sherlock had just opened his mouth to speak when they heard the bolt turn and the door open. Victor flung himself away from Sherlock to stand in the corner. The two men in summer clothes entered with a small paper bag and a large bottle filled with a clear liquid, hopefully water.

xxx

“James Wilder,” Greg said. “Born in Sunderland, got a degree in Computer Science at Newcastle University, entered the job force in 2001 at Mi5.” Greg’s eyebrows furrowed, “Says here he died in a car accident ten years ago.”

John frowned at him.

Greg looked up, “I know, mate, but that’s what it says.”

“Well, clearly this guy is alive. He was in that room.”

“Mi5. I don’t like the sound of that.”

“Neither do I. Maybe he got in some kind of trouble, faked his own death. This is exactly the kind of person who would be running an international human trafficking ring,” said John. “A phantom.”

John set his worry for Sherlock aside for a second to concentrate on what they knew. James Wilder was obviously not dead. It was the perfect cover though. He wasn’t dead and he wasn’t going by Wilder anymore. He had to be someone, working with Mary, in the room...they had Sherlock.

John said, “He’s either Mary’s assistant Graham or someone who came into the room after she’d removed Sherlock’s belt.” John didn’t know why it bothered him, but there was something about the assistant’s way of speaking. “Do we have a photo of Graham?”

“We should, somewhere.” Greg walked to the other table where information and photos of all of the Agra employees were stacked. He rifled through the stack, mumbling, “Nope, wrong Graham...um...okay, yes, here he is.” He pulled out a small photo and handed it to John.

It was of a man, looking to be in his early-thirties, vamping for the camera with an outrageous, flirty smile. He was just on the other side of handsome but with an incredibly symmetrical face, dark hair, and a shortly-cropped beard.

Despite the changes in hair color and facial hair, John recognized him immediately.

“Oh my god,” he said, mouth hanging open.

Greg pulled his eyebrows together, “You recognize him?”

“This is Obnoxious James.”

Greg looked confused.

“I met him years ago at a pub one night when Mary was with some work friends. He was a model. He had lighter hair then and he was a complete tosser.”

“Well now he’s more than that, he’s our main suspect.”

“So Obnoxious James is James Wilder...and Graham the assistant. We find him, we find Sherlock and Victor.” He didn’t dare say out loud that they might find Jack after all of these years but a tiny glimmer of hope flared in his chest at the possibility.

“He’s Mi5 among other things. Let’s be smart about this,” Greg said as he dialed his mobile.

Greg directed his officers to go to Agra and find every bit of information they could on Graham.

xxx

Turned out that the bottle did contain water. Victor drank greedily from it. But the small paper bag contained only trouble. Victor was wild-eyed and delusional for a reason.

“On your stomach,” the smaller of the two men said to Sherlock.

He complied because what would be the point in fighting when his hands were tied behind his back? The larger man, wearing plaid Madras shorts of all things, sat on his buttocks and pulled at his wrists. He tried to stay silent but grunted when he felt the cool, wetness of an alcohol swab swipe over the inside of his forearm.

“No,” he grunted.

“Stop moving or I’ll knock you out,” the man threatened and put his huge hand over the back of Sherlock’s neck. As he felt the familiar sting of the needle, he couldn’t help the thrill of anticipation for the lightning quick zip of cocaine moving amongst his blood. Of course, he had deduced that it wouldn’t just be cocaine since Victor’s behaviour suggested more. Something terrifyingly extra.

He waited, feeling the cold fluid enter his veins and the needle exit his skin. In less than 30 seconds, euphoria and panic overwhelmed his brain. His body went rigid as he clenched his jaw and squeezed his eyes shut. There was no thinking. There was only breathing and heart-beating and clutching at the cloth of his trousers and the carpet. He keened and cried out as wave after wave of energy flowed through him.

Time stood still. He couldn’t hear or see anything. He was alone, in the dark, feeling his body jittery and tense.

There was no way for him to know how long his body and mind hovered in that state, but he was aware when the high began to even out. He became aware of when he was able to hear. Finally, when his eyes were open, he could actually see. He saw Victor, also on the floor, still and breathing shallowly, almost as if in sleep.

When he tried to move, to sit up, he was shocked by the violence of his vision’s changes. He was no longer in his own body. In fact, he could see Victor as if he was sitting right beside him. His own feet looked to be on the other side of the room. He saw his own body from above for a fleeting moment before he forced himself to look at Victor again. “Fuck,” he said out loud, voice croaking with adrenaline.

Victor’s eyes flew open and immediately found his. “Holmes? All right?” He crawled over to Sherlock.

Sherlock groaned and tried to reach for Victor. His hands still bound could only grasp at the air. Ketamine, he thought, must be the addition to the cocaine. He hadn’t ever done them together but had dabbled with K and Molly. There was something else too, maybe GHB. Thankfully he was coming down a bit and turned to Victor.

“Trev? You been taking this for weeks?”

Victor was staring at his own hands. He put them on Sherlock’s face and pet him. “Holmes, are you all right? Can I see your wrists?” He turned his back and Victor slowly circled each wrist in his hands. “We need to convince them to cut these off. You’ll go crazy.”

Sherlock couldn’t feel his arms or wrists. Rather than admit this, he asked, “How are you feeling?”

“High. Right. Normal. They’ve got me addicted to this stuff, I think.”

Sherlock still could not quite stay in his body. He tried not to look at anything except for Victor. If he saw his feet or hands it was from across the room and it was deeply unsettling. He wondered how long he had been in that room. It only felt like hours but it could have been more.

xxx

“Stop right there,” shouted the officer. John could hear what sounded like boxes and possibly a tablet computer crashing to the ground.

John stood in the hallway of a very posh apartment building, keeping silent as Greg’s people entered the listed address of Graham the Assistant. The only reason he was allowed at the scene was because he’d insisted, and would not step less than half a meter from Greg at any time. Greg acquiesced because he’d helped make the connection between James and Graham. What he didn’t know was that Greg had also allowed it because he liked John and knew that he was good for Sherlock.

He heard a high-pitched scream and a door slamming. Officers shouted, “In there! Go around!” Vague orders that could not be understood unless inside the apartment. He was incredibly frustrated to not be in there, but John stayed still.

He heard strong thuds against wood, then more screaming. “Get your fucking hands off of me, you brute!”

 _Well, that was quite dramatic._ John almost smiled.

“Let me go! Fuck you!”

After several minutes of shouting abuse, the previously unseen person marched through the apartment door and into the hallway and into John’s view. His hands were bound in front of him. He was a model, had to be. He looked to be barely ‘of age’ and wore extremely tight orange denims and a white polo. He looked at John and the corners of his mouth tipped up slightly. “Good luck finding them,” he sneered.

John moved forward, fists clenched by his sides. The young model shrieked and leaned into the officer holding him. He yelled, “No! No, get him away from me.”

The officer put her body between John’s and the model. John rolled his eyes at them both and sighed. “Don’t you think you’re overreacting just a bit, mate?”

The model cringed at John’s killer smile and deadpan delivery, but he repeated, “I know you.” His eyes were wide with recognition and slight panic.

John raised his eyebrows. “No, you don’t.” John looked at the officer who was looking back at him dubiously. John tried to remember if he’d ever shot this young drama queen. He couldn’t recall. The bloke didn’t seem familiar at all.

His eyes stayed on John even as the officers dragged him down the hallway towards the stairwell. It unnerved him. He couldn’t shake the feeling that the model might know him but he was sure he’d never seen the bloke in his life.

With clenched fists and a frown he entered the apartment of Graham, also known as Obnoxious James. He talked with Greg, who confirmed his suspicions, that the young model (named Apple, another eye roll) was gathering Graham’s things to presumably destroy or hide them. They had his laptop, a tablet (with a newly cracked screen), two mobiles, and several file folders containing headshots, resumes, and the like.

John looked around the very neat home office. His eyes landed on the photographs framed hanging above the desk. There were several different shots of Graham with various celebrity designers. They all had the flashy posed look of photos taken at the Vanity Fair party or Met Gala after-party by a professional paparazzo. Graham had his arm around each person and a huge smile. There was one other photo that was much more intimate. No flash, no after-party glazed look on his face. It was him and Mary, somewhere on a London sidewalk, arm in arm, looking at each other with clear affection. Mary looked older and very professional, but also soft and happy. He had to remind himself that she was not the loving woman he had married. She was a criminal. A psychopath. She had Sherlock. And possibly Victor and Noah. And maybe poor Jack was still alive somewhere. She and Graham knew where all of those beautiful men were locked up. John wanted the key.

They took Graham’s belongings to the station to sift through. John was extremely frustrated about the time lost, but Greg was right, they couldn’t sort through it all efficiently in his tiny home office.

Once spread on the table, John looked through every photo, e-mail printout, internet history, receipt, invoice, and resume hoping that something would jog his memory. After all, he knew Mary very well for a time. He knew her when she was turning into whatever she now was.

John looked through the evidence until something caught his eye. There at the bottom of one e-mail was an address in a business park that John knew very well. It was the smoking photographer’s studio. The studio was a tiny backroom inside a giant warehouse used to distribute produce. John remembered the sweet-acrid smell of rotting fruit and tobacco smoke.

He was the photographer’s assistant, trying to make it in commercial photography because Mary had said there was money in it. He recalled what she’d said, “Journalism, John? Really? No, you’ll make much more money as a commercial photographer. Here, call this bloke, he has a job for you.” He remembered being so fucking annoyed. He wanted to tell stories not sell soap! He wanted adventure and danger and truth. He didn’t want to be some advertiser’s pawn. But in the end, to make her happy and to make the rent, he’d called the photographer and he’d gotten a job as his assistant. The photographer smoked like it was good for you.

He thought back to the pub where he had kissed the green-eyed Jack. He thought about how beautiful and shy he was. He thought about the conversation they had, the kiss they had shared. He remembered that for one fleeting moment during his kiss with Jack, he worried about the smell of his breath. He’d smoked a few cigarettes that day, a passing almost-habit he acquired because of his job at the time. He didn’t want to put Jack off, but he figured the beer and time had erased his ashtray mouth. He’d worried, but Jack hadn’t seemed to notice.

“Greg? I know this place. I used to be an assistant to the photographer who rented this space.” He looked up and said, “Back when I was first married to Mary.”

Greg looked at the address printed on the page, then at John, letting his mouth hang open a bit. “Did she know it?”

“Yeah, she set it up for me.”

“Couldn’t hurt to check it out.” Greg called over one of his officers and gave them the address. He said to them, “Check this out, super quiet, and if there’s something, call for backup immediately. Could be very dangerous.”

The hair on John’s arms and neck stood up. He knew it could turn out to be nothing, but it didn’t feel like nothing.

“I’m going with you,” he called after the officer, grabbing his coat and running out of the room.

He heard Greg call after him. “No way, mate.”

John turned. “I’ll sit in the car,” he lied.

Greg huffed and rolled his eyes. “No you won’t.”

“No, I won’t.”

Greg hesitated for a long moment, clearly wanting John to act like a civilian again. John could see the moment he relented. Resigned, he said, “All right, you’re like chewing gum on the bottom of my shoe, Watson, I swear.” Greg turned to the officer and said, “McGregor, we’ll all go. Come on!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm posting this on the last day of 2018. Wishing everyone a happy new year!
> 
> Please come and say hello on Tumblr at [onesmallfamily](http://onesmallfamily.tumblr.com) and Twitter at [tinyblood221](https://twitter.com/tinyblood221).


	16. The Raid

Once the cocaine high wore off he was left with a bit of body dysmorphia from the ketamine. He could handle that, it was the hallucinations that were most unnerving. They were getting more vivid and it was harder for him to be sure of what was real. Blurry vision. Were his eyelashes moving? They undulated like wheat fields in a strong breeze. His shoulder and neck hurt from lying on his side on the ground.

He looked at Victor. His every exhalation was a puff of fuchsia steam and each time he rubbed his hands through his dark, straight hair, gentle blue streaks of electricity went soaring around the room. Strangely beautiful.

The binding on his wrists made it impossible to move without pain shooting up his arms. At his request, Victor massaged his neck and arm muscles to try to relieve the cramping that was the result of being restrained in the same position for so many hours. It didn’t help much, Victor was easily distracted by his own drug trip.

He needed to think. He needed to figure out a way for them to get out of here.

“Trev,” he tried. Victor was staring at the desk drawer pull, apparently completely engrossed. “Trev.”

“Looks like a nipple.”

Sherlock glanced at it. “No, it doesn’t. Listen to me.”

Victor finally looked at him. He could see him trying to focus on his face.

“How often do they come in? Listen to me, Trev. How often?

It took a long moment, but Victor answered, “A lot.”

As if on cue, Sherlock heard the bolt unlock and one of their captors entered with the same small bag and bottle of water. He wondered if they were ever going to get fed. He groaned in pain.

Quicker than expected, Victor stood and faced Madras-shorts. He had his hands up and didn’t go closer as if he knew he shouldn’t. “Hey mate, please, can you please cut his arms loose?”

Madras-shorts looked at Sherlock on the floor. “Not gonna try anything stupid?”

Sherlock shook his head. The movement pulled at his neck muscles and he winced.

“Lay down, face down.”

Victor tried to protest on Sherlock’s behalf. “Aw, come on, he -“

“Shut the fuck up,” the man roared. Sherlock rolled over. The man sat on his bum and swiped his arm with an alcohol wipe.

“No!” Victor cried. “It’s only been a few minutes! You’re going to kill us.”

“It’s been two hours, you poof.” The man injected Sherlock with what felt like a smaller dose, then pulled a huge knife from somewhere and showed it to him. His put his face close to Sherlock’s and sneered. His breath reeked of onions, beer, and something metallic. In his state, Sherlock imagined it as a gas infiltrating his nose, mouth, and pores. He was inhaling this man one molecule at a time and it made his eyes water. He would suffocate on this man’s stinking aluminum-breath. He gagged and tried not to inhale.

The man held the knife directly in front of Sherlock’s eyes and said, “I don’t want to kill you, I want to fuck you.”

Sherlock retched and spit, squeezing his eyes shut against the stench. The man chuckled dangerously and rested the flat of the blade on Sherlock’s cheek. He moved his hips to nudge at Sherlock’s bum in a sickening threat.

“I’m not allowed, though. Poor you.”

Quickly, he sat up and Sherlock felt him tug at the zip tie around his wrists. His arms immediately fell to his sides as the pressure of the tie was severed. He moaned in relief and the man chuckled again, thrusting his hips one last time before standing and walking to the door. Sherlock looked up at him in time to see him stow the knife in a sheath on his belt.

“Boss will be here soon,” he smiled and bolted the door behind him.

Sherlock turned onto his back and Victor sank to the floor, pulling him into a tight embrace. He put his aching arms around his oldest friend and didn’t let go for a very long time.

xxx

They watched as Mary and Graham exited the sleek black car and entered through an open garage door. He said something and she threw her head back and laughed. John thought they looked awfully relaxed for people who had just discovered that one of their victims was wearing a wire. John positively seethed with hatred for her. For them.

The warehouse portion of the building was on the south side. Two other officers from Greg’s team were on the north side where the offices were. John, Greg, and MacGregor snuck in under the cover of darkness. They silently moved across the back wall, each in contact with the others through slick, nearly invisible ear pieces. At the far end of the vast space, light spilled out through an open doorway. As they approached they could hear low voices. John thought they didn’t sound quite as relaxed as they had looked.

Mary and Graham spoke in slightly hushed tones but John could make out a little of what they said.

“...here soon.”

“...three hundred now…,” he heard Mary say, “...then it’s their problem.”

“...good...this quarter’s finished.”

They heard laughter and then one of their mobile’s pinged with a text alert. They heard the sound of car tires on gravel from the entrance they’d used. Greg tapped John on the arm and pointed to a stack of large crates. John moved swiftly to hide from the headlights, as Greg and MacGregor followed. There was plenty of room and if they were very lucky, MacGregor’s body cam would record their transaction.

They watched as the black BMW rolled to a stop very near where they hoped to remain undetected. At the noise of the car entering the warehouse, Mary and Graham came out of the doorway and waited.

Three men exited the car all at once. The driver, a large man clearly hired because of his size, approached Mary first. She smiled hugely, and exclaimed, “Duncan! So fabulous to see you again.”

Duncan smiled and they shared a couple of air kisses. He turned to the other men, and said, “You remember Orkun, and this is Seb.”

Mary extended her hand and said, “Orkun.” As they shook hands briefly, she lowered her head and looked up at Seb through her eyelashes. “Seb, how wonderful to meet you.” She was flirting with him and it turned John’s stomach. “I’m so looking forward to working closely with you.” How had he ever loved this duplicitous, evil creature?

Seb had the look of a banker, but the crick in his nose told the story of someone who was not unfamiliar with hand-to-hand combat. “Ms. Morstan, I’m looking forward to working with you too.” 

John watched Mary watch Seb.

She was growing increasingly tense. Something was wrong. Her flirty banter turned into terse, one or two word replies. She shot a wary glance towards Graham when no one else was looking. This was not good. She either sensed that London’s finest were surrounding the building or she was somehow suspicious of Seb, Orkun, or Duncan.

Seb seemed to sense something was wrong and said, “Everything all right?”

Mary laughed and touched his forearm, “Oh, yes, perfect. Let’s go inside and talk.”

Seb visibly tensed at this. “I’d rather do this here and now. We have a fundraiser to attend and need to leave very soon.”

Graham took over the proceedings and said, “There are four. And it’s three hundred for all of them. We’re ready to transfer the four overnight to the location of your choosing.”

In the tried and true modus operandi of criminals everywhere, a giant bag of cash was exchanged between Duncan and Graham. They didn’t shake hands. Mary looked eager to have them leave and said, “Thank you, it’s been a pleasure.” She turned on her heels and walked into the building leaving the men to talk with Graham.

Seb handed him a card and Graham said, “Location?”

“Address here. House in Hounslow west.”

“Very good. They’ll be there.”

John’s whole body buzzed with tension. He looked over at Greg and raised his eyebrows. Surely they would go in now. Greg just pursed his lips.

In their ears, one of the officers hissed, “Lestrade!”

They were too close for Greg to respond so he stayed silent.

Very clearly and too loudly for the situation, they heard, “What the - !?” Their pieces went quiet. They looked at each other, brows furrowed in confusion. John pointed vaguely towards where Seb and his two men were walking away after shaking Graham’s hand.

Greg shrugged his shoulders and turned away so that he could speak without alerting the perpetrators in front of him.

He hissed, “What’s going on?”

Silence. The kind of silence that indicated that all of the other microphones were off.

He turned to John, looking worried. Seb was already in the car and his colleagues were standing next to the car discussing something but they seemed to be in agreement. They were about to get into the car and drive away. Graham was already in the building. John grabbed Greg by the wrist and said lamely, “They’re leaving.”

Greg said, “It’s useless, something has happened to my people. We have to go.”

“But she’s still in there.”

“We don’t know that. But we have the recording, let’s hope they don’t leave town. Let’s go.”

The three of them backed away into the shadows. As soon as the were clear from the garage area, they sprinted toward the other side of the building. John’s lungs burned with lack of oxygen, his breaths coming heavy and loud to his own ears. He couldn’t hear anything in his earpiece now that the other officers had gone silent. “Missing,” his brain supplied. Dammit, how many people were they going to lose before this thing was over?

Greg, running ahead of him - damned his short legs - stopped so abruptly he almost ran into his back. John heard it just as Greg said, “Helicopter.”

“Helicopter? What the fuck?”

“I don’t know. Come on!”

They ran towards the noise and into the shadows that would guide them out of the garage and to the other side of the building where they’d last left Lestrade’s officers. John’s heart sunk as he heard the sound of tires crunching on gravel moving farther and farther away.

xxx

Sherlock knew what to expect this time and it had felt like a smaller dose. If they’d just inject him with cocaine he might be able to think his way out of this. But the bloody Special K and GHB and whatever else it was had rendered him practically helpless. He supposed that was the point. He was lucid enough to be grateful that the rapist in Madras shorts was “not allowed” to assault him.

Victor stood and paced the room. He turned to Sherlock and opened his mouth as if he was about to say something when they heard it. A muffled but unmistakable bang came from somewhere on the other end of the building.

“What was that?”

Sherlock whipped his head towards the direction of the noise. He knew what it sounded like. He tentatively answered, “Gunshot?” They heard two more shots then nothing for several long minutes. Sherlock rose on wobbly legs and walked over to Victor. Victor took his hand and they moved to the corner of the room furthest from the door.

“What’s happening?” Victor said, terrified.

Sherlock didn’t answer. He couldn’t get Victor’s hopes up, but he quietly hoped it was a rescue. Lestrade and John would have been working on it. Somehow they might have found a connection between this place and Mary or Graham. He squeezed Victor’s hand tighter, raised them to his lips, and placed a short kiss on his knuckles. Never taking his eyes away from the door, he said, “Steady on.”

xxx

John and Lestrade stopped short of the building entrance. It was the last known location of two officers, whose earpieces were clearly turned off. They hid behind some vegetation and a low retaining wall. The helicopter got closer, but started to land on a adjacent building. It was unclear if it was related to the operation they were currently trying to salvage.

McGregor, as the firearms officer, unholstered his Glock and held it in front of him. “Sir, I suggest we go in.”

“I agree, we’ll be right behind you. Find out what happened to my people.”

All three entered the building with extreme caution. In what was John’s sixth or seventh adrenaline spike in as many hours, he welcomed his brain’s singular focus and body’s numb determination. The small entryway led to narrow hallways going several different directions. They would not split up, John knew. But he had to restrain himself from screaming Sherlock’s name and running down every one of those hallways.

McGregor stopped, gun drawn in front of him. He turned his head over his shoulder and opened his mouth to say something. He did not get the chance. Three gunshots rang loudly from down the left-hand hall. He shouted, “Down!” and swung around to cover Lestrade and John.

John hissed, “They’re not shooting at us.”

“I know, but get down anyway while we find out what’s going on.” McGregor was clearly losing patience with this civilian. John had been there before, many times. He rolled his eyes and stayed down. Inaction was going to kill him before McGregor ever could.

They listened for a few tense moments before they heard shouting. Several people were shouting, “Stop!” and “No!” and “Hands up!” Voices tripped and overlapped so no one voice could be distinguished from another. Until they heard one last gunshot. John gasped a sharp breath as he heard Mary scream.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please come and say hello on Tumblr at [onesmallfamily](http://onesmallfamily.tumblr.com) and Twitter at [tinyblood221](https://twitter.com/tinyblood221).


	17. Rescue

“Steady on.”

Victor and Sherlock could hear shouting and Mary screaming. It stopped and they couldn’t hear anything more. They crept towards the door, trying to hear anything above the sounds of their panting breaths. Still high, Sherlock tried keep it together enough to anticipate what would happen next. They both jumped, startled, when the door to their small room burst open and two women dressed in black tactical vests and helmets trained their weapons on them.

Sherlock’s eyes went wide and he shot his hands into the air.

“We’ve got two,” one of them said into the radio on her shoulder. She lowered her weapon. The other one did not, Sherlock noted with dismay. “Names?” They told her at the same time, each with their hands up. Each officer holstered their weapons, raised their hands placatingly in front of them, and moved further into the room.

“All right? Jane and I are going to take you somewhere safe now. Will you come with us?”

Sherlock and Victor looked at each other. Then at the officers, and nodded.

“Good. You can lower your hands. Are you hurt?”

Sherlock shook his head, Victor just stared at them. Sherlock said, “They’ve been drugging us. I think he’s been here a week, maybe two. I just got here today...or yesterday.”

“Can you walk? Can you follow us?”

Sherlock took Victor’s hand in his and said, “Yes,” already walking towards the women and escape from this nightmare.

xxx

“That was her.” John said, looking at Lestrade.

“I know.”

Down the hall, they heard muffled shouting. There was no more screaming from Mary.

John hissed, “What the fuck is going on?”

No one answered because not one of them knew.

The sound of a door slamming had them all turning their heads at the same time. People in black helmets and bullet-proof vests sporting large assault-style rifles filed calmly down the hallway towards them. The first agent saw McGregor and stopped. “Oi, lower your weapon.”

Despite being clearly and unpleasantly surprised, he was able to comply. McGregor quickly holstered his weapon and raised his hands in front of him. Greg and John did the same.

“Who are you guys?” said Greg.

He looked backwards towards the rest of the agents coming down the hallway. “We’re not authorized to tell you that yet.”

Greg scoffed. “What did you do with my officers?”

“They’re safely secured outside of this building.”

“Are you serious? You can’t just…”

“Come with us, sir.”

“It’s Detective Inspector Lestrade.”

The agent tipped his head, “D.I. The briefing is outside.”

“What about hostages? We’re looking for at least two young men.”

“Come with us, sir. Someone will be outside to brief you.”

“What the fuck?” Greg replied, irritated.

Through gritted teeth, the agent said, “Outside.”

While Greg argued with the agents, John had moved a few steps away toward the sounds of the struggle they’d heard. He needed to know where Mary was. He needed to know that they’d caught her and Graham. He needed to know if she’d met a worse fate. Her scream had been desperate and full of pain.

Agents were still emerging into the hallway when finally he saw her, hands behind her back guided by one of the larger agents he’d seen. She looked as cool and professional as ever. The only sign that there had been any strife was slight black smudging from her mascara under one eye. Even her pixie cut looked artfully tousled. Her face had been a mask of indifference until her eyes landed on John’s face.

He was satisfied to note that at the first second of recognition, there was fear in her eyes. Instantly, it was replaced by a defiant sneer. And infuriatingly, she began to laugh. Full of derision, she said, “Oh my god, what are _you_ doing here?”

John stilled and narrowed his eyes. He didn’t know what he expected. He supposed she might be frightened or hurt or...contrite? But not this Mary. He had to remember this was not the woman he’d fallen in love with when he was just a kid. He didn’t know what she was now, but he suspected she was a criminal sociopath.

“Are you covering this for one of the papers?” She asked, snarky but sounding curious.

John crossed his arms and pulled his lips into a detached smile, a dangerous smile. “Hello, Mary.” She blinked at him. As the agents walked her by him, he growled, “I don’t need to tell you why I’m here. But I’m glad I am so I can see them walk you out in cuffs.”

She pulled her eyebrows down to scowl at him, disgusted. Good, John didn’t give a shit what she thought.

He watched her back as they led her out of the building. He un-crossed his arms and made his hands into tight fists. He caught Greg’s eye.

Greg nodded his head towards the exit of the building. “They’ll brief us out there.”

He followed eagerly. He wanted to find out what the fuck was going on. He was desperate for news of Sherlock.

John and Greg were surprised at the number of people, cars, and guns outside. It had been very quiet when they’d gone around back with everyone hiding. Now, Greg’s officers plus about twenty more agents were standing around. They still didn’t know what agency they were from, but they were well armed and highly organized. They even had a helicopter, which John noted was idly sitting on the adjacent roof with lights on. He looked around hoping to spot tall, thin, and dark curly hair.

Beside him, Greg muttered, “Of course.”

John looked at him and then turned his head to see where Greg’s eyes fell.

A man with a long nose, thinning dark hair, a three-piece suit, and an umbrella stood to the side, placidly surveying the activity.

“Who’s that?”

“Come on, I’ll introduce you.”

John followed Greg towards the strange man. As they approached, the man lowered his chin and tilted his head. His hawkish eyes raked over both of them, but settled on John’s face. He didn’t blink. He seemed to be trying hard to look menacing. John had a moment to decide whether or not to be intimidated by the stranger. He decided not.

“D. I. Lestrade,” the man drawled.

“Mycroft,” Greg answered, clearly irritated. “So these are your men.”

The man lowered his chin further and flashed his eyes open wider for a split second. “Yes,” he drawled again as if Greg was being completely obtuse. John found ‘Mycroft’ to be more irritating by the minute. He knew Greg agreed with him by the huff of exasperation and the increasingly red color of his face.

“I was on it, Mycroft. I have been working on this operation for months.”

Mycroft had the decency to look slightly contrite. “As soon as this operation involved my brother, I had to intervene.” John wondered who he was talking about.

Greg complained, “We had them, with just a few officers. A small operation.”

“Well, as you know, D.I. Lestrade, I prefer bigger,” the corners of Mycroft’s lips quirked up into a smirk. John coughed at the obvious innuendo. Lestrade’s blush deepened. “The bigger, the better, actually.”

Lestrade muttered, “Oh my god,” and stared at Mycroft.

As much as watching this exchange amused John, he desperately wanted to know where he could find Sherlock.

John cleared his throat, which prompted Greg and Mycroft to break their gaze. He said, “Did you find people being held here? We believe that at least two young men were being held here. Mary made a deal with some men - Seb, Orkun, and Duncan. There was money exchanged. We need to find them.” By the end of this, John was almost frantic with worry at the non-reaction he was getting from Mycroft, whose face remained frustratingly blank. John clenched his jaw and both fists.

Mycroft finally said, “And who are you?”

“This is John Watson,” Greg replied for him, “A friend of Sherlock’s.”

“Really? Are you with the police?”

“No,” John answered flatly.

Mycroft merely raised his eyebrows.

Greg said, irritation returning in full, “Mycroft, just tell us what happened.”

“Very well. Seb, as he was called for this operation, was one of mine. We apprehended a woman and a man, in possession of three hundred thousand pounds in cash, and two young men, one of them my brother.”

“Your brother?” John asked. He knew the answer before he asked the question, but asked it anyway. “Who is your brother?”

“I think you can guess.”

John could not believe how pompous and calm this man was when his brother had been kidnapped, held, and possibly assaulted. Somehow, the fact that he was so calm, reassured John in a strange way. Even this man would surely show some emotion if Sherlock had been hurt. “How is he?”

“He and Victor have been drugged on a fairly regular basis, the last time just one hour ago. Victor had significant injuries consistent with a severe beating some weeks ago. However, they are all expected to recover fully with no harmful lasting effects. I only hope that this does not trigger my brother to return to his previous...habit.” John hoped for the same thing.

“We heard shots and Mary screaming,” Greg said.

“Yes we had to carefully subdue Ms. Morstan, as she was armed. She was uncooperative and quite vocal. She and Mr. Wilder are unharmed. As are our officers and agents.”

“Mr. Wilder. So you know who he is?” John asked.

Mycroft gave him a withering look. “Of course I do.”

Mycroft must be someone very powerful, but John grew tired of this briefing. He asked, “Where is Sherlock?”

“What is your association with my brother?” Mycroft asked.

John looked back, surprised. He wasn’t going to tell Mycroft anything. It was up to Sherlock to disclose something or nothing about them. “We’re friends,” John echoed Greg’s descriptor.

“Friends?”

“Yes,” John said. He squared his shoulders and looked up at Mycroft. He smiled dangerously, and said very quietly, never breaking eye contact, and asked again “Where is he?”

Mycroft hesitated, then pointed towards an ambulance by the north side building entrance. He turned in the indicated direction and walked away from them.

John felt strangely nervous now that he he was here on scene. _Will Sherlock expect me to be here? Would he want me here?_ Slowly he made his way around the ambulance towards the back, open rear doors. Sherlock was mostly facing away from him, looking into the interior of the ambulance. His shoulders slightly hunched, his hair was frizzy and more voluminous that it usually was. He could only see the side of his face, one perfect cheekbone. He breathed, “Sherlock,” quietly. Sherlock did not hear him.

John took one step closer. He saw Sherlock raising his hand, joined with Victor’s. Barely a sliver of Victor’s face was visible from John’s angle, but he could see his smile and shining eyes as they moved. Sherlock placed soft kisses on Victor’s knuckles. John saw Sherlock’s eyes crinkle with affection and his soft smile. He looked very much like a man in love.

Heart sinking, John stood frozen. It made sense, they’d been through a frightening experience together. Their old and deep connection probably could not be denied, even if Sherlock did have feelings for John. If their bond had kept them alive and unhurt, then John was grateful for it. He thought of James and their short-lived affair, intense from the beginning and feeling very real even all of these years later.

Before John could decide what he would do next, Victor noticed him. And Sherlock noticed Victor looking behind them. Unconsciously, his body stiffened into parade’s rest. He found himself jerking his chin up as Sherlock turned around. He watched as Sherlock’s affectionate and smiling eyes fell on his. He held his breath as Sherlock’s face fell.

There was simply no recognition on Sherlock’s beautiful face for a full five seconds.

Sherlock wore a mask of indifference, looking exactly like the first time they’d met. His heart breaking surely felt like a punch to the gut. He blew out his breath, looked down, and bent slightly at his waist.

He would look up and tell Sherlock he was happy he was safe. That he was happy Victor was safe. He’d tell him to call him later if he felt like talking. He’d turn around and walk back to the chaos of the cars and lights and ask Greg for a ride to the nearest hotel. He’d book a flight to New York City and go to the place he called home and try to move forward with his career and life.

He looked up to find Sherlock still looking at him with the same detachment. Resigned, he opened his mouth and said, “Sherlock.” He hated the way his voice cracked on the second syllable.

“John!” He nearly knocked them both over with the force of his embrace. He wrapped John in his long arms and buried his face in John’s neck. He mumbled, “No. John. No.”

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s thin frame and squeezed their chests together. He looked up into the sky over Sherlock’s shoulder and let himself feel a tiny sliver of hope. He felt Sherlock lightly kiss right below his ear.

He pulled back and moved both of his large hands to John’s shoulders. To John’s surprise, he was smiling. “Don’t be an idiot.”

John reached up and tentatively placed both hands on either side of Sherlock’s neck. “Are you all right?” He let his eyes wander over Sherlock’s features. The maniac was still smiling, grinning even.

Sherlock swooped down and captured John’s lips in a hard kiss. He didn’t move, just squeezed John to him and pressed their lips together. John’s shoulders dropped and he exhaled long and slow through his nose.

After a long moment, Sherlock whispered against John’s lips. He said,“I knew you’d find me.”

John was shaken that he seemed to still have so much faith in him. John knew they had failed him. They let him be taken. John held back a sob of relief. “I was so worried, Sherlock. I’m so sorry, love.”

“I’m fine.” he said, placing small pecks on John’s lips, cheeks, and finally his forehead.

 _I love you I love you, I love you._ John said, “I’m so glad.” He wanted to stare into those aquamarine eyes to see the light behind them, the clear reflection of his affection glowing from behind dark lashes. Sherlock seemed just as content to stare into John’s eyes.

Both of their heads turned towards the sound of Victor clearing his throat a bit too loudly.

John looked at the bruised face of Sherlock’s oldest friend and took a step back to create a little distance between them. Sherlock looked back at John. His brows pinched slightly and he jutted his chin up a bit. He reached for John’s hand and intertwined their fingers. To John, it felt possessive. As he squeezed Sherlock’s hand, his face relaxed into quiet understanding and gratitude. John smiled softly at him.

Sherlock guided them over to the ambulance.

“John Watson, this is Victor Trevor.”

They shook hands and nodded at each other. “All right?”

Victor replied, “I will be.”

John remembered what Mycroft had told him about a second location they were going to investigate in hopes of finding more victims. There was also Graham, Mary, and any number of people from Agra to interrogate. He was confident they’d find more. “They’ll find Noah, I’m sure of it.”

Victor looked at him and said, “You’re very kind.” Then he added quietly, “I hope so.”

Sherlock took Victor’s hand with his free one and said, “They will Trev. They found us.” Sherlock leaned in and kissed Victor’s cheek. Victor looked at him and nodded. John felt slightly awkward witnessing the intimate moments between them. But it was clear that Sherlock wanted him there, the grip on his hand never loosened. Sherlock nodded at Victor and he dropped his hand. He turned back to John and said, “You have questions.”

“Mycroft knew you were taken and was looking for you too.”

Sherlock nodded. “He’d known about James Wilder faking his death ten years ago. He always gets informed about unusual Mi5 agent activities. What he didn’t know was what Wilder was doing with Mary.”

“Until yesterday.”

“Yes,” Sherlock sighed, “I had asked him to help me find Victor. He said he was working on it, but he hadn’t made much progress.”

“But you?”

“I’m fairly certain he has my face programmed into the CCTV.”

“Bit creepy,” John said, “but helpful in this case.” He raised their joined hands and kissed Sherlock’s knuckles softly.

Sherlock nodded. “He was already on alert because of Victor, then when I didn’t leave Shoreditch house...he had every vehicle leaving the vicinity followed.”

“Every vehicle? That must have been hundreds of cars.”

“He practically is the British government.”

John shuddered. Loving the close relative of an entire government was dangerous. Just the kind of challenge John loved.

“I always have you in my thoughts, little brother.” Mycroft said, as he approached.

Sherlock sighed dramatically. “John, I presume you’ve met my brother.” They nodded at each other. Mycroft looked over and said “Hello, Victor.”

“Hey, Myc.”

Sherlock smirked at his brother’s sneer. He went on to brief Victor and Sherlock about their second operation of the night and promised to keep them informed.

John said, “Thank you, Mycroft. You’ve been a huge help.”

“Huge is the perfect way to describe him,” Sherlock mumbled. Mycroft glared at him.

This confused John, but he assumed it was something long-born between the brothers.

Sherlock turned his back to Mycroft and crowded into John’s personal space. “I want to go home, John. Will you come with me?”

Sherlock’s eyes were wide open, his bottom lip jutting out slightly. He looked exhausted, but sincere. John nodded.

Sherlock’s lips curled into a smile. He took a few steps towards the road, trying to tug John along. John stood still for a moment. Sherlock looked back at him questioningly.

John nodded to the paramedics, then over to where Lestrade stood talking with a couple of agents. “Let me check with them.”

Sherlock huffed but seemed pleased that John didn’t drop his hand.

After getting the green light from the medical team they walked towards Greg. When he noticed them, he smiled, teeth glowing in the blue flashing lights of the police cars. “I’ll give you a ride back to Baker street, yeah?”

John sighed, “Perfect, thanks Greg.”

When they arrived at Baker Street, John had to nudge Sherlock awake. “Sherlock? We’re here.”

Sherlock barely woke as he leaned on John, as Mrs. Hudson let them in, as they walked up the stairs, and as he entered his bedroom. John lead him into the small bathroom, turned on the shower tap, and undressed him.

“Mmm, tired. Can’t have sex.” Sherlock cracked his eyes open briefly.

John chuckled, “I know, love. This is going to be the world’s most efficient shower and then we’re going to go to bed to sleep.”

Sherlock just hummed and closed his eyes again.

John maneuvered them into the shower, Sherlock with his back facing the tap and John facing him. Sherlock leaned his forehead onto his shoulder. John’s heart surged with affection and he couldn’t help placing small kisses on his temple.

True to his word, John washed, rinsed, and dried them in record time. He wrapped Sherlock in a soft towel and led him to the bed.

“Stand there.”

Sherlock stood, eyes open, but eyelids heavily drooping.

“Pajamas?”

“No. Just you,” he replied. He let the towel drop to the floor and crawled under the duvet. He held it up behind him so John could climb in. Sherlock reached for John and pulled him until his chest was flush against his back. John reached his hand up to stroke along his hip and settle in the dip of his waist.

Sherlock’s breath slowed and John thought he was asleep when he mumbled, “You found me.”

John kissed the back of his neck and whispered, “We did.”

“Thank you,” he breathed.

Instead of answering, John kissed him again and squeezed him just a bit tighter. “G’night, love.”

After long moments of breathing together, John felt his body slowly release the tension he’d been holding since Sherlock had entered Shoreditch House. His heavy limbs and eyelids relaxed.

As he drifted off to sleep, he heard the slightest whisper from Sherlock’s lips, “”Night, John.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please come and say hello on Tumblr at [onesmallfamily](http://onesmallfamily.tumblr.com) and Twitter at [tinyblood221](https://twitter.com/tinyblood221).


	18. Boyfriends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Probably should post this on Chapter 1, but this fic is not brit-picked or beta'd. All errors are my own and I fucking like it that way ;)

John slipped from Sherlock’s bed, reluctantly moving Sherlock’s right hand from his hip. He had slept soundly for a few hours. When he woke, he listened to Sherlock’s soft, snoring breaths. A vigil for any signs of stress, or drug sickness, or general discomfort. The paramedics had told John that Sherlock denied any physical assault had occurred. John hoped it was true.

He put on Sherlock’s dressing gown and picked up his phone to read messages from Greg. Mycroft’s second raid of the night had gone well and he had news of more arrests and rescues. He proposed they meet in the afternoon. John noted the time and was glad that they had a few hours until midday. He wanted to make sure Sherlock slept, ate, hydrated. He also wanted to have a serious talk and assess Sherlock’s mental state, as much as he could, in light of the trauma and drugging.

With a tall glass of water and several plain digestives, he returned to the bedroom. Sherlock sprawled on his back, sheet pushed down to his hips. He seemed to be sleeping soundly cradling John’s pillow. John flashed back to that night in New York, when the promise of kissing and sex seemed so imminent, only to find Sherlock asleep in his bed. His mind lingered on the disappointment and heartache of the weeks that followed Sherlock’s early morning exit. John was forever thankful that he’d gotten a second chance with the gorgeous man. Did that mean he was thankful to Mary for her devious ‘business’? He shuddered at the thought.

John placed his phone, the food and drink on the bedside table, let the dressing gown drop to the carpet, and slipped back into bed. Sherlock stirred at John’s jostling. His eyelids fluttered open and stared blankly at the ceiling. John regulated his breath, slow and calm, allowing Sherlock to take the lead on how the morning would go. Sherlock turned to his side and looked at John. He looked exhausted, pale, and his eyes turned sad as his eyelids sank slowly. Still, in the mid-morning light, he was the most beautiful thing John had ever seen.

Quietly he said, “I feel terrible.”

John raised his hand and touched his cheek. His eyes immediately closed and his face relaxed under his fingers. John stroked his cheekbones in circles with his knuckles and watched Sherlock breathe through his open lips.

“I’m sorry, love.” He continued to stroke Sherlock’s cheek and said, “Sit up a bit. I brought you water.”

They shifted around and sat up against the headboard. John tucked pillows behind Sherlock’s neck and shoulders then twisted to get the water glass. Sherlock held it with both hands and drank almost all of it before handing it back to John.

John held a biscuit, “Can you eat?”

Sherlock shook his head and sank further down into the pillows, closing his eyes.

“Be right back.”

“Stay.”

John brushed a curl from his forehead and said, “Two minutes, I promise.”

Sherlock hummed.

John made tea for them and brought it into the bedroom. He refilled the water glass and poked around the bathroom’s drawer and cabinet for ibuprofen or paracetamol. He found some and brought that back with him. Sherlock was in the exact same slouched position, but his eyes were open watching John.

“You’re naked.”

John looked down at himself and smiled back at Sherlock. “So I am. Do you mind?”

“Of course not.” He closed his eyes for a moment and sighed, “I wish I felt better. I would take advantage of your current state.”

“I’ll be naked for you whenever you like, sweetheart.”

“You’re going to be sorry you said that.”

“Nope.”

Sherlock watched John walk towards him and slide under the duvet.

John made sure Sherlock drank another glass of water, swallowed the pills, and sat up a bit so he could drink his tea without spilling. He hummed his appreciation for the tea and said quietly, “Thank you, John.”

John smiled at him. He was happy to have Sherlock near him and safe. They sipped in silence for a long time. Sherlock placed his empty cup on the table beside him and tucked down onto his side, facing John. John looked down at him and brushed his curls back from his face, tucking one behind his ear. He let his finger trail down his neck then went back to sipping the last of his tea.

He assumed Sherlock was going to try to sleep again, but when he looked down, he was watching him again. John quirked his lips upwards in an affectionate smile.

“Tell me about James.”

John’s lips quirked down and he opened his eyes wider. He had thought Sherlock wanted to rest, not talk about serious topics. “Now?” he asked carefully.

Sherlock didn’t move but continued to stare at John.

John sighed and placed his tea cup on the bedside table. He tucked himself down on his side facing Sherlock. “I met him in Afghanistan. I was on a rooftop taking photos of some bad guys when this tall bloke, built like a lorry, comes towards me in his military fatigues. I thought I was dead.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

“I wasn’t supposed to be there, but he came and said my buddy had sent him. Turns out he and his unit were after the two bad guys I was photographing. We went to have tea.” John stopped and thought of mischievous, beautiful blue eyes looking at him over tiny glasses of tea. They had tried to drink together like normal blokes who just met, but unspoken searing tension cut their tea time short. It had only been about five minutes before they both felt the strong urge to get out of there and get to John’s room.

Sherlock was smirking at him when he finally looked back. “Must have been good tea.”

John smiled, “Fucking fantastic tea.”

Sherlock grunted out a small laugh but grimaced.

“What is it? Headache?”

He nodded. John said, “I’m sorry, love. More water?”

Sherlock shook his head and said, “So you and James...” He raised his eyebrows.

“Sholto.”

“Captain James Sholto?”

“Major.”

“Major? Nice. So you and Major James Sholto had fantastic tea together in Afghanistan for how long?”

“Two weeks.”

Sherlock’s brow furrowed. “Intense.”

John looked down and frowned. He had been desperately in love with James and it was unfair that their time together was so short. “Very.” He stayed quiet for several long minutes. He didn’t know how to explain the next part. He didn’t even know most of what happened himself. Sherlock stayed quiet, for which he was grateful.

“I begged him to take me with him. I wanted to be with him. I wanted to help him. We had talked about these bad guys and what they’d done and what they were hiding. It was my mission too. So he reluctantly agreed and he took me with him. We traveled to a small village where the two bad guys were supposed to be for the night. The plan failed, someone had tipped them off. Instead we were attacked. I was not supposed to be there. I was shot. Four of his men died. He was discharged.”

John felt like he was telling someone else’s story. He felt detached but his nerves sang with tension - no doubt the trauma manifesting itself in his body. The e-mail, the deaths, the non-closure. He would never see James again. He’d never get to tell him how much he had meant to him and how sorry he was. He felt his chest tighten and stinging in his eyes. He looked at Sherlock with water welling in his eyes and nose and said, “He got me out. He saved my life.” He steadied his voice, “Never saw him again. Just got a short goodbye email and that was it.” He took a deep breath, “I must have loved him for how much I grieved the loss of him.”

Sherlock took his hand and raised it to his lips. “You loved each other.”

John just nodded as Sherlock kissed his fingers sweetly.

“You still love him.”

“It’s not like it was. He was there one minute and gone forever the next. I felt like I needed to feel the end longer, does that make sense? But it’s been a while and it’s gotten better with time. My career is totally different now. My life is different.” He pulled Sherlock’s hand to his lips so he could kiss his fingers.

Sherlock closed his eyes and let John place small kisses on each knuckle and the pad of his thumb.

John looked at the bruised skin under Sherlock’s eyes, listened to his shallow breaths, and asked, “Sweetheart? Can you tell me what happened?”

Sherlock opened his eyes but didn’t say anything for a long time. John released his hand and Sherlock pulled it back to clasp both hands under his chin. “They drugged us.”

John nodded.

“Cocaine, ketamine, and GHB or something like it. A hallucinogen. Quite a nasty mix. My hangover is quite unpleasant.”

“Before...I mean when we first met. You...um…”

Sherlock interrupted his awkward rambling, “Cocaine is my preference. I have strong cravings for it, now and always. I don’t think my experience over the last few days has made that worse.”

“Ah...okay. Good? I guess.”

“I am unlikely to try to find any coke while you are with me, at least for now.”

That worried John. He didn’t know how bad Sherlock’s problem had been, but he’d been around long enough to see how bad it could get. He was comforted that Sherlock thought he was a deterrent or could provide encouragement to stay clean, but he knew that ultimately it was up to Sherlock. Brilliant, young, troubled Sherlock.

“I’ll be here. Whatever you need.”

“Good,” he said with finality. Sherlock closed his eyes and John thought he was finished talking about his experience. But after a long silence, he said, “Mary drugged me. I fell to the floor. I tried to call out for you.”

John’s chest squeezed painfully as he was reminded of their failure to keep him safe. “I know. I heard you. I’m so sorry, love.”

“One of the guards drugging us was a creep. I’d like to forget his threats...and his stench.” Sherlock’s eyes flashed and his lips tightened into a line.

John inhaled sharply and growled, “What happened?”

Sherlock looked into his eyes and must have seen red-fire fury. He reached his hand out and placed it on John’s cheek. Quickly, trying to reassure, he said, “Nothing. Nothing, John. He just...said what he wanted to do. Showed me a knife. Leaned on me. I was unharmed. But I was high at the time and it was basically quite awful.”

John had to calm his breathing, and tried to lower his heart rate. Threatening to kill everyone involved with the operation probably wouldn’t help Sherlock heal. He turned his head and kissed Sherlock’s palm. He opened his mouth to speak.

“Don’t say you’re sorry again,” he snapped.

John shut his mouth.

“I know you are. I am too. But I’m done talking about this. Possibly forever.”

John nodded.

“Can you sleep? I need more and I’d like it if you stayed with me.”

“Yes, love. Let’s sleep.”

xxx

Sherlock drifted to sleep easily with John there, in front of him, warm under his duvet. After what felt like several hours, he woke alone. He heard soft voices coming from the living room and knew that Mycroft had come. John had left him pills and water. He felt remarkably better than he had earlier, but he took the pills anyway, sensing a headache could reappear quickly given his brother’s proximity. He dressed quickly and entered the lounge. Mycroft was sitting in his chair. He rolled his eyes and sighed.

“Ah, there you are, brother. You’re looking better. How are you feeling?”

“Better.”

John smiled at him from the red brocade chair. Sherlock walked over and sat on the arm of it. John’s arm came up to encircle his waist.

“What happened at the other location?”

Mycroft fiddled with the handle of his umbrella. “Similar type of holding area. Two persons were being held there. Only two guards. Easy, really, to subdue them. Victor’s friend Noah was one of the men freed.”

John blew out a relieved breath and squeezed his hand tighter around Sherlock.

“His condition was not good, but he’s expected to make a full recovery with no permanent physical issues. They are both at the same hospital, in fact. Sharing a room.” He smiled. “Victor will be released later today. Noah in a few days.”

“What about Mary and Graham?” John asked.

“They have been questioned. It appears this has been going on for many years. Between five and ten young male models were _sold_ by them each year. Some very influential men in the Middle East will pay huge sums of money to satisfy their homosexual urges clandestinely in countries where that sort of thing is punishable by death. Sickening, really. The whole thing has been quite distasteful.” Mycroft made a face that matched his last statement.

Sherlock felt John’s hand squeeze further. It was beginning to hurt. He looked down to find him clenching his free fist. He placed his hand on John’s at his waist and said, “John.”

He looked up and must have realized what he was doing. He pulled both hands down to his lap and clasped them together, muttering, “Sorry, love.”

Mycroft’s eyebrows raised, but didn’t say anything.

“What will you do to them?”

“I expect they will be charged with a number of serious offenses and will surely be found guilty.”

“There are others. Can you find the ones who’ve already been taken?”

Mycroft sighed, “I’m afraid some of the cases will be too old. We’re trying, of course. I already have some very good investigators deploying to the area as we speak. But a decade is a long time for someone to have survived what surely must be a harrowing existence.”

John looked angrier by the minute. “Yes,” he gritted out, “but you’ll try.”

Mycroft nodded his head to one side in acknowledgement, “As I said, we will.”

John had an old acquaintance who’d been taken years ago. He knew John was angry about that, and about the fact that Sherlock himself wasn’t supposed to get taken at all. John blamed himself for what had happened to them all. Sherlock didn’t know how it could be John’s fault, but he silently vowed to make John see the truth and stop blaming himself.

“He’ll keep us informed, John.”

John looked up at Sherlock and nodded grimly.

“What about Lestrade?”

“The Detective Inspector was still quite miffed this morning, but I made it up to him.” Mycroft smirked and gazed off into the distance.

Sherlock made a retching noise and said, “That’s not what I meant, Mycroft. I meant, does he need anything more from John and me or is our involvement with this case finished?”

“I believe you are no longer needed for this investigation.”

Sherlock rose quickly, feeling much better. He knew he’d feel even better once his brother left. “Then fuck off.”

He glanced at John, possibly expecting admonishment for his dismissal. John looked irritated, but not at him.

Mycroft just smiled placidly. “As you wish.” He stood and walked towards the door. When he reached the doorway, he said without turning around, “I’m glad you’re safe, Sherlock.”

John raised his eyebrows and mock-frowned. Sherlock shook his head. Why was his brother insisting on expressing sentiment. They never did that. Impatient with Mycroft and itching for some time alone with John, he said, “Yes, yes, thank you, brother.”

Mycroft walked down the stairs without another word. Sherlock was fairly confident they wouldn’t be seeing him for a while and let out an exasperated sigh. “I’m going to text Victor,” he said, grabbing his phone and typing furiously. “What are your plans for the rest of today?”

“I haven’t any. Just...making sure you’re okay.” He looked down and a slight flush appeared on his cheeks. Sherlock wanted to devour him.

He waited for Victor’s reply - lots of exclamation points, euphoric that Noah was safe, grateful to Mycroft ( _gag_ ) for the room arrangements, happy to be with Noah, hoping Sherlock was well - he replied with a ‘thumbs up’ emoji, and threw his phone down on the sofa.

John stood in the afternoon light, in front of the windows that looked down on Baker Street. He had his hands in his pockets, casually looking around, waiting for Sherlock’s attention probably. Attention, yes, that’s what he was going to get. His full, hard, complete attention.

“John.”

John looked up with eyebrows raised in question.

Sherlock closed the distance between them. John’s reaction to his personal space invader was to drop his arms and lift his chin. Sherlock leaned over and kissed his earlobe. John let out a small sigh that encouraged him to say, “My plans for the rest of today include observing that big cock of yours go from soft to hard.”

John moaned and said, “God, Sherlock. You can’t just say things like that.”

He kissed down John’s neck. “I’ll watch it pull away from your body, watch the foreskin retract.” 

“Keep talking and you’ll completely miss that process.”

“Then I’m going to use my tongue to slowly open you up for my fingers, or maybe my cock.”

“Definitely missing it.”

“How long can I keep you on edge? Thirty minutes? A full hour? You’ll be begging for me.”

”Yep. Too late,” he growled, and pulled Sherlock into a rough kiss.

xxx

There’d been no edging. They were both so eager after so many days apart, that in the end, Sherlock stayed true to his word and provided so thorough a rimming that John almost came untouched. It only took a few strokes for him to moan loudly and come all over Sherlock’s hand. While John came down from his truly intense climax, Sherlock took himself in hand and bit down on John’s arse cheek, shuddering through his own orgasm.

Sherlock climbed up and draped himself along John’s back. John hummed and reached for his wrist, pulling it to his hand to gently bite the tips of Sherlock’s long, elegant fingers.

This man, this gorgeous, young model was so unlike anyone John had ever met. He could have been vacuous, vain, uncaring but he was the exact opposite. Scary-smart, gentle, and loving. John was helpless against his feelings for Sherlock.

He knew it was the circumstance, the hormones, the spectacular orgasm, but he couldn’t help himself. After a few long moments of gathering their breaths back to normal, through light kisses and strokes to the thick base of his thumb, he said it.

“I’m in love with you, Sherlock.”

Immediately, he felt Sherlock tense up and stop his gentle caress.

God, he knew he’d said too much. It was too fast. Why did he always do this? How did he always fall so hard, so fast? He scrambled to sit up and face him, pushing Sherlock onto his back next to him. He looked down into Sherlock’s wide, beautiful eyes. Sherlock didn’t blink or move his mouth from the strange o-shaped position his lips were frozen in.

“I’m an idiot. It’s too soon, I’m sorry. Forget I said that,” he said as he scrubbed his hands over his face. “We can talk about it later, or in a year...or never,” he rambled, feeling more miserable as he realized what he had done.

Sherlock stared up at him with the same expression on his face, seemingly frozen.

John brushed the curls from Sherlock’s forehead gently. The only sign he was still alive was some rapid blinking that had started with John’s touch.

He pulled his hand back and settled it on the bed. He continued to watch as the seconds ticked by without a response from Sherlock.

Sherlock blinked and stared at John’s face, but he could tell he wasn’t really seeing. It was getting a bit scary.

“Okay, that’s getting a bit scary now.” Given the circumstances, he resisted his urge to call him ‘love’.

Sherlock’s eyes focused on John’s and he breathed in a giant inhale, pausing as his lungs filled. He finally said, “You…?” It was half a question.

John groaned, “Forget it, I’m sorry.” He reached for Sherlock’s hand, which lay limply on the bed next to him.

“You’re…?” Sherlock stopped again, but his eyes narrowed and he quirked his lips into a shy smile.

John’s stomach swooped. He gusted out a sharp breath, almost a laugh, and said, “Yes.”

Sherlock’s answering laugh and huge, radiant smile were all the invitation John needed to swoop down and kiss him.

 

For the next few hours they drifted around the flat, in each other’s orbit, but not in each other’s pockets. Sherlock made tea and let his go cold while he was distracted with something in his room. John made more and handed him a fresh cup. Sherlock looked surprised and then pleased.

John realized how unusual it was, how comfortable he was at Sherlock’s flat. With him but not needing to touch or talk. He was comforted by the crazy wallpaper, the cluttered shelves, the television sitting in a corner at an unwatchable angle.

It felt like home. The thought jolted him out of his dreamy domestic headspace. They didn’t live together. He lived in New York City. His flat had his photos, his favorite mug, his eight other cameras and twenty-two other lenses. He hadn’t booked a ticket back yet, but he’d have to go home eventually. He started to wonder about long-distance relationships. Did they work? He had rarely known anyone who did it for long. You either moved in together or moved on apart. Fear numbed his legs as he thought of spending weeks without Sherlock.

He looked up from his laptop to find Sherlock staring at him from the couch. He smiled and John smiled back. Both tentative.

“I was thinking…” Sherlock said.

John looked at him from the red brocade chair, waiting for him to continue. He had to wait several long minutes.

“Nothing,” he said, rubbing his lips thoughtfully, “It’s nothing.”

“I was thinking too,” John said. “About home.”

Sherlock puffed a sharp breath out his nose and shook his head slightly. “I was thinking something similar.”

“About where it should be.”

His narrowed eyes snapped to John’s. A current thrilled up the back of his neck at Sherlock’s laser focus on him. He watched as John got up, walked over, and sat on the sofa next to him. He kept a bit of distance between them.

“I need to go back to New York.”

Sherlock looked down and nodded. The corners of his mouth pulled down and his lower lip jutted out slightly. He sighed.

“But I want to come back to London soon.”

Sherlock nodded. “You could stay here when you visit.” His voice rumbled, low and sad.

He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t just leave London and just visit this gorgeous genius now and again. It was too fast, he was risking it all, but he needed to find out if Sherlock wanted the same thing that he did. “Er,” he raised his eyebrows and said, “Actually, I thought I’d move back.”

Sherlock’s whole head jerked up, lips parted. John recognized his blinking as part of his ‘you’ve surprised me’ look.

“I play the violin when I’m thinking. Sometimes I don’t talk for days.”

Brows pulled to the center, he quirked his head to the side. He decided to just go with it, follow Sherlock’s thoughts wherever they led. “The violin? Really?”

“You see but you don’t observe,” he said, pointing to the end of a violin case tucked behind the side table. He had noticed the music stand, but it was empty so he thought it was for magazines or something.

“Oh. I’d love to hear you play sometime.”

He made a distracted, flippant gesture with his hand and said, “Anytime,” but his eyes stayed on John’s. He looked expectant. Hesitant. Vulnerable.

“What’s this about you not talking?”

Sherlock quietly, almost shyly said, “Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other.”

“Flatmates?”

“Boyfriends?”

John smiled. “Boyfriends?”

“You don’t have to, I was just thinking…”

John reached up, put his hand on the back of his neck, and pulled him forward. “I want...to be clear, do you want me to move in here with you?”

Sherlock kissed him. He opened his mouth to slide his tongue against John’s. He ran his fingers through John’s short hair, ran his long fingers over John’s jaw, settled his thumb in the cleft of John’s chin. He hummed and exhaled warm puffs of air on John’s cheeks.

“Sweetheart?”

He pulled back, quirked one corner of his lips and rolled his eyes. “Yes, John. I want you to move in.”

“All right.”

John pulled him down for a kiss full of hope, joy, and love. For the first time in a long time, he was excited for what was to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please come and say hello on Tumblr at [onesmallfamily](http://onesmallfamily.tumblr.com) and Twitter at [tinyblood221](https://twitter.com/tinyblood221).


	19. Need

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue

Within two weeks, they had moved John’s things into 221B Baker Street. He’d sublet his apartment in New York, which was technically illegal, but the young photographer he let it to would never tell. Sherlock had made sure of that with a vaguely threatening, yet probably unnecessary, menacingly toothy smile.

Things were mostly smooth during the first days of their cohabitation. They rarely argued. Or if they did, it was because Sherlock did something infuriatingly reckless or disgustingly messy. John would admonish him with exasperation that was only half-serious. Sherlock always pulled him out of these moods with affectionate caresses or kisses.

Sherlock did his best to resist his cocaine cravings. He meditated, took long jogs through Regent’s Park, and insinuated himself in to John’s personal space whenever he could. John was incredibly proud of him and told him so often.

John worked on the guilt he felt. They still waited for word of Jack. John told Sherlock he’d accepted that he’d never see Jack again, but Sherlock knew he was just trying to talk himself into acceptance. Sherlock tried to reassure him and tell him he was the best person he’d ever known as often as possible.

He wasn’t used to thinking about anyone else, but with John it was easy. John consumed most of his waking thoughts. Another week went by of lazy mornings, coffee at Speedy’s and trips to the Tate Modern and Design Museum. Sherlock could tell John was getting restless, wanted to go back to work, as much as he was enjoying their time together.

“Got a call from Mike.”

Sherlock hummed. He had heard the phone but was too engrossed in his violin to care at the moment. He was composing a song for John, though the man himself was oblivious. He kept saying, “That’s lovely,” and “Beautiful, Sherlock. Really beautiful.” Sherlock was pleased that he liked it and couldn’t wait to reveal that it was actually a gift.

“Purple magazine wants me.”

Sherlock looked up at that. “Oh? That’s great, John.” Purple magazine was an influential magazine in art and fashion. It didn’t have a huge readership among the public, but it was highly respected across all art forms. “Where is the shoot?”

“North Captiva Island.”

Sherlock frowned. He’d never heard of it.

“Florida.”

“Ah, back to the States. When?”

“In ten days.”

He didn’t say anything, but worried about how long John would be away.

“But you’re forgetting the most important question.”

He frowned again. Should he ask about how long they’d be apart? Would that look weak or needy? Is that the most important question?

John said, “Who.”

He’d been distracted and hadn’t thought about _who_ John would be shooting. They hadn’t spent more than an hour or two apart since he was rescued. He knew they’d have to separate eventually. He sighed. John must have been excited about who it was for him to bring it up.  “Oh right. Who?”

John tilted his head and winked, “You.”

He blinked. Him? _What?_ “What?”

“You haven’t been answering your phone. Wilkes must have been calling you.” John grinned as he watched Sherlock’s flustered reaction.

Sherlock had lost track of his phone. He whirled around and placed his violin and bow on his chair, then looked back at John. It would be amazing to have John shoot him again. It would be the perfect way to get back into work. Together. He grinned at John who smiled back and said, “It’s under the microwave,” he rolled his eyes, “I have no idea why.”

Sherlock strode into the kitchen and snatched up his phone. Seven texts and three missed calls. He read the texts, confirmation of what John had said. Not that he would doubt it.

He walked back into the lounge and started reading them to John. “Purple magazine. Watson is the photographer. Rented a small cottage for you for two days.”

John was looking at something on his own mobile. He turned the screen towards Sherlock. Gorgeous blue water, sandy beach, blue skies. Like a tropical paradise.

“Looks gorgeous.”

“Like you,” John winked again.

“No you.” Sherlock walked over to him and placed one finger in the cleft of his chin and ran other through John’s soft hair. He kissed his lips softly. John smiled up at him and let Sherlock look.

xxx

“Champagne. Very nice.” John threw his suitcase on the bed and looked out at the view. The small cottage was made up of a small kitchenette in one corner, a big bed taking up most of the main room, and a tiny loo in the corner. The whole thing was hoisted up almost two stories on stilts and large windows from each four walls opened to full ocean views on one side and tropical trees on the other. There were no other houses nearby and it seemed like they were all alone in the world. Their own private paradise.

Sherlock stood in front of the window facing the sea. His white cotton shirt fluttered loosely around his middle. The breeze tossed his curls slowly and John’s breath caught. Sometimes he was shocked at Sherlock’s stunning looks. He walked up behind him, circled his arms around his waist, and rested his head on one shoulder blade. Sherlock’s hands came up and grasped John by his forearms.

Afternoon in Florida meant it was after dinner back home.

“Hungry, love?”

“Not really.”

John knew that meant that he was a bit hungry. He released him and walked to the refrigerator. Delighted to find it stocked with fresh produce, a variety of meats and cheeses, plus more champagne, he reached in to pull out some berries and brie.

Sherlock walked over to see what John was doing.   
  
“Champagne and a snack.” He reached up for two small cups and a plate.

“Perfect,” said Sherlock. He popped a strawberry into his mouth and chewed. A tiny translucent pink drop hovered on his bottom lip for a split second before he made an obnoxious slurping sound to pull it into his mouth. He smirked at John’s obvious attention. John cleared his throat and handed a cup to Sherlock.

“Behave.”

Sherlock dragged out the n-sound, “No, I don’t think so.”

John smiled and shook his head.

“So when do we start?”

“Whenever you like.”

“Now?”

John paused. They had only just gotten there, he’d started drinking. It seemed like they should prepare, be professional, talk about what they both wanted out of the shoot.

“You’re thinking too much. We have this place for days - “

“Two days,” John interrupted.

Sherlock closed his mouth and quirked one eyebrow at John.

John quirked his eyebrow back.

“I may have extended our reservation a bit.”

John tilted his head to one side and knit his brows together. He said slowly, “You may have…”

Sherlock placed both hands on each side of John’s face and smacked a kiss to his lips. He whirled around, waving his arms in a huge sweeping gesture. “I did,” he exclaimed. “We’re here for a week. We can shoot every day or just do one hour, I don’t care. I’m just happy to be here in paradise with you.” He stood looking at John from across the room, looking every bit as young as he was.

“You’re mad and perfect and I’m happy to be here with you too.” He walked over and handed him his cup. “Cheers,” he said, clinking their little cups together. They downed their drinks in one gulp.

They changed into their swim clothes thinking of heading to the beach, but lingered on the deck instead. The sun was still high in the sky given the late hour. Summer in Florida. Hot, sticky, breezy. The champagne, the smell of the sea, and the sight of Sherlock in tight black swim trunks and a lilac linen shirt with buttons undone and hanging open was making John squirm. His own olive green swim pants wouldn’t be concealing his feelings for long. He peeled his eyes from Sherlock’s long legs to gaze out at the eight different shades of bluish-green that was their view of the cloudy sky and calm sea.

“We need more champagne,” Sherlock said.

To distract himself, John agreed to go get it. _When did we finish the other bottle?_ No matter, there was another one chilled. John brought it and his camera out to the deck. He filled their cups and moved his chair closer to Sherlock’s so he could reach over and place his hand on his leg. Sherlock hummed and stroked down his arm once. They sipped and listened to the surprisingly loud sound of gentle waves hitting the sand.

John idly ran his fingers over the course hair on Sherlock’s thigh. He felt wonderfully light, slightly giddy, and thoroughly relaxed. Sherlock looked so beautiful, he wanted to preserve the moments forever. “Beautiful light, love. Want to take some photos?”

Sherlock lolled his head towards John and cracked open one eye. “All right.”

John chuckled, “We don’t have to. You can just sit there. But I can barely resist how beautiful you look right now.”

Sherlock quirked a smile and said, “Thank you, John.”

John smiled and ran his fingers through Sherlock’s frizzy curls. “I’ll just…” John pointed to the camera and got up.

Sherlock lowered the back of his seat so he could recline further. John liked the way his dark curls framed his face. Sherlock parted his lips and opened his eyes to stare at the camera. John stood over him and began to shoot.

Sherlock’s eyes were nearly colorless in the afternoon light. The photos played with light and dark. The light of his eyes against the dark streaks of lashes, brows, and fringe. The pale pink of his lips, parted, so the inside of his mouth was darker but for a small flash of white teeth. His tongue peeked out to wet his bottom lip. John captured every millisecond of the movement. As he moved around the chair shooting him from different angles, Sherlock reached out to brush his hand over John’s bum or calf or thigh. When John was really engrossed in his subject, he murmured little phrases out loud. He said, “God, but you’re a pretty thing,” and “Yes, lips, just like that,” and “Makes me want to do things.”

Sherlock smirked at the last one, ran his hand over John’s bum, and stared at his groin. “I can see that.”

John lowered the camera from his eye and looked down. He was right. The fabric of his very small swim shorts did not do anything to hide his attraction and interest. He looked back at Sherlock’s face and mumbled, “Sorry.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Yeah, no, I’m not.”

Sherlock rose and said, “Let’s go down by the water. I feel like taking a dip.” His voice went so deep John could hardly hear it over the waves. His eyes glittered with mischief.

John would always follow him.

They walked down to the water. John snapped a few more photos of Sherlock’s hair and linen shirt catching the breeze in the beautiful soft light. Sherlock stopped at the water’s edge and stared out at the vast turquoise blue water. He turned and said, “Purple is going to want something interesting.”

“Oh, are we working now? I thought we were just having a bit of fun.”

The gleam was back in Sherlock’s eye. “We are.” He stripped off his shirt, tossed it onto the sand, then hooked his fingers into his swim shorts and sloughed them down all the way to his ankles.

“Ha! Oh my god, Sherlock,” he said as he watched him kick the tiny black pants over to where his shirt was wrinkled on the sand. Instinctively, John looked around but they were alone. “You a bit tipsy, sweetheart?” John himself still felt the buzz.

“The sun feels amazing on my skin,” Sherlock smiled. He walked into the water and raised his arms above his head in a sort of salute to the tropical gods. John admired his broad shoulders and the taper down to his small waist and ample bum. Sherlock lowered his arms, turned around, and started walking backwards deeper into the water.

“I can see that you’re liking this.”

Sherlock looked down at his thickening cock. “Couldn’t you guess that I’m a bit of an exhibitionist?”

John muttered, “Models,” while Sherlock grinned at him. The water finally lapped up over his partial erection. John stayed on shore but raised his camera to take a photo. The light washed the sea out to a whitish green so Sherlock’s normally pale skin glowed like warm honey. The waves rose and lapped at his gorgeous bum. He looked over his shoulder giving John a look of pouted lips and almost-startled eyes. He took the photo as Sherlock turned. He looked caught out, coquettish.

“You posing for me?” John teased.

“A bit,” Sherlock said facing away again.

John bent down to sit in the sand. Normally, he’d be taking lots more photos, but this afternoon wasn’t really like work. He just wanted to look at his love, feel the breeze in his hair, and the sand between his toes. He’d take a photo when the mood struck.

xxx

Sherlock splashed about in the warm water, looking back at the beach every few moments to look at John. He was too far away to have a conversation, but close enough that Sherlock could see the details of his face and body. The water and air were almost the same temperature. The sunlight warmed his skin. It was erotic. The way the sea and sun licked at his erection. Warm, wet, and his cock thickened further. He giggled, he could still feel champagne bubbles on his tongue. It was absurd. He was standing in the ocean, on a public beach, in America, with a hard on.

John on the shore gazed at him, camera clutched tightly against his chest. He took a few steps into the water, making sure the camera was high and out of the water’s reach. He started shooting. Sherlock made sure his back had been turned to him the whole time. John was getting a fantastic view of his arse. Sometimes he turned his face to look at John and pose.

Finally he turned a bit further and knew that John could see just how stimulated he was. John kept shooting, apparently mesmerized by the light and the scene in front of him. Sherlock saw the exact moment of recognition in John, of exactly what he was seeing. His hands faltered as he pulled the camera against his chest once more.

Sherlock’s expression changed from innocent to a filthy smirk.

“You arse,” John admonished, “you almost made me drop my camera.”

“Sorry,” he muttered.

“You’re not,” he smirked. His face fell and his eyes went half-lidded. “Fuck, love, let me see you.”

Sherlock turned and walked towards him, light behind him, erection bobbing in front of him. He stopped when the tip of his cock hit John’s hip, leaned around him, and kissed from his earlobe down his neck. John’s hands, clutching his camera, were trapped between them. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John and nuzzled his neck, stopping to bite and suck little marks into his tanned skin. John moaned, “Yes.”

John tasted of salt and sunshine and a tiny bit of his cologne. Sherlock licked and sucked until he only smelled of Sherlock’s champagne breath. He held one arm around John shoulder and the other caressed down his side to cup his arse. He rubbed and lightly squeezed, sucking at his earlobe. John moaned in frustration. His arms trapped between them, he could only reach Sherlock’s clavicle and shoulder. He placed kisses there, but mostly just groaned open mouthed against him. Sherlock dragged his hand along John’s hip and around to feel his cock, held by tight lycra.

“Fuck, Sherlock,” John complained. “Let’s go back.”

He felt like teasing him a bit. Drag out the delicious tension. He pulled back, raised his hands to the sides of John’s face and looked into his eyes. He loved John’s eyes. Large, deep blue, huge pupils at the moment, and long light eyelashes that shined in the afternoon sunlight. They kissed slowly, sliding lips and tongues against each other. Sherlock sucked at John’s lips before he pulled back and opened his eyes. “You go. I want to splash around a bit more.”

John blinked at him. “All right,” he smiled. “Don’t be too long.” He raised his eyebrows suggestively.

“I won’t.” Sherlock stepped back and watched as John relaxed his shoulders and adjusted the grip on his camera. He looked down the length of Sherlock’s body as he stepped backwards. He licked his lips in that maddening way of his. Sherlock wanted to chase after him but turned instead. In a moment, he looked back over his shoulder and John was nearly on shore. Sherlock lowered himself so his knees touched the sand and his chin touched the water’s surface. The tips of his curls dipped into the water. He leaned down to run his hands along the softest sand he’d ever felt. He ran his hands up his thighs, over his stomach, to circle his hard nipples. He circled them and leaned his head back to feel the sun on his neck. God, it felt good. He ran his hands down his body, touching, swirling his fingers over every inch of his skin, front and back. He rubbed, brushed, caressed, teased at his sensitive skin. He was hard as stone and panting, the sensation of bathing light and water on his body beyond pleasure. It was love. He was loved by John. He loved John.

He stood, and with wet hands, ruffled his curls. He looked up and down the beach and didn’t see anyone about but John. His John, sitting on the shore, leaning back on his hands with his head lolling on one shoulder. He walked slowly out of the water and approached John, who had picked up his camera and was taking a few photos. Sherlock walked slowly, posing a bit, feeling completely unselfconscious about his nudity. John made him feel beautiful and sexy. John snapped several more times.

“You are a gorgeous sight.”

He hummed. He stood over him, blocking the sun on John’s face. His hair dripped onto the light hair of John’s shins. John picked up a small, smooth piece of bone, worn from its time spent in the sand. He rubbed his fingers across the small eye socket and down the bill’s point. Sherlock said, “Gull?”

“Dunno. Maybe.” John smiled at him and patted the sand next to him. “C’mere. Sit here.”

Sherlock lowered himself down and stretched out to lay on the sand next to John. John ran his hands up from his ankle to hip. Sherlock raised his eyebrows. John gently stroked between his legs. He bent his knees slightly to give John access to his bum. John’s fingertips teased his arse, up over his balls and along the semi-hard length of his cock. He hummed. _Delicious_. He closed his eyes as John ran his hand up over his belly and chest. John took his hand away but before he could protest, he felt something very light settle on his skin, near his navel. He looked down. It was the tiny bird skull, glowing against his browned, salty skin. John snapped a very closeup photo of it and then bent down to retrieve a small shell. He placed it on his skin near the skull.

Sherlock raised his eyebrow and smirked but John wasn’t looking at him, he was looking for more shells in the sand. He closed his eyes and let his mind wander. He heard gentle scraping of John’s feet in the sand, the loud roar of small waves, the occasional sound of John’s camera. He felt small and large shells, smooth and cool to the touch, being placed on his skin. As John moved around him, the air cooled whenever he blocked the sunlight and warmed again when he moved away. Floating on a Florida beach, he let himself be bejeweled with the natural cast-offs of the local fauna.

John stood and took photos from every angle.

“You’ve decorated me.”

John hummed, “Like a Persian princess on her wedding day.”

Sherlock chuckled and all of the shells from his left arm slipped off.

John stopped shooting, seemingly satisfied and sat down in the sand next to Sherlock. John poured sand through his fingers onto Sherlock’s toes and ankles. Sherlock looked at him and John looked back for a long moment.

They had kept each other in varying states of arousal until the sun was very low in the sky. “Want to watch the sunset,” John asked.

“No.” That was the very last thing he wanted to do. He’d had warm water, sand, the sun, licking at his erection for the better part of an hour. He reached for John, pulled him in for a deep, wet kiss as he ran his hand down the front of John’s erection. John’s cock lay almost horizontal across his hip, trapped in his swim pants. It couldn’t have been comfortable. Sherlock palmed the length of him. God, he loved this man.

“Let’s go back.”

John popped up and reached for Sherlock’s hand. Shells rained down, plink-clinking onto the sand as he stood. He picked up his discarded clothes, bunched them up and clutched them to his chest. They walked hand-in-hand back to their cottage.

As they entered the cottage, Sherlock dropped his clothes on the floor. “Shower?” He looked at John whose eyes were enormous and dark.

John growled, “Fuck no, I want to taste you.”

He couldn’t help a full body shudder as John grabbed his arm and pulled him roughly to him. John wrenched his head aside and attacked his neck with not-so-gentle bites, sucks, and long tongue laves. Sherlock hung onto John’s shoulders, afraid to let go. His head hung to one side.

John moaned and said, “You delicious thing.”

Sherlock yelped at John’s sharp bite. John muttered, “Sorry, love,” but did not sound sorry at all. He pulled Sherlock’s curls to shift his head to the other side and went to work on the other side of his neck. “I can’t get enough of you.” He licked and sucked dark bruises into Sherlock’s skin.

Sherlock raised his hands to John’s head and tugged him into a deep kiss. He tasted his own salt on John’s lips.

He walked John back and pushed him into sprawling on the large bed. John reached for him, but he evaded his love. He needed to get those swim pants off, and now. He roughly worked his fingers under the strained fabric of John’s pants and tugged hard. John’s abdomen buckled under the force and shock of it. His cock bounced up and slapped back onto his belly. Sherlock ripped the pants down John’s legs and off his feet, tossing them all the way to the other side of the small cottage.

With a sound that was both growl and moan, Sherlock lunged at John’s cock, engulfing it fully into his mouth. John cried out, “Oh god!”

Sherlock closed his eyes and sucked him down over and over. The taste of his John, filling his mouth, brine and earth. He moved his hand to stroke him in time. Soon John was moaning and thrashing saying, “Sweetheart, yes,” and “beautiful, perfect.” Sherlock stroked fast and sucked without mercy, coaxing John’s climax expertly. John shouted, tugging Sherlock’s hair to pull him off. Sherlock pulled off, stroked his hand faster and watched as John came, shooting over his belly.

As John’s moaning waned, Sherlock gently sucked the head to clean the few drops that remained. John watched him and said, “Bloody hell, you knew what you wanted.” Sherlock grinned, keeping their eyes locked, as he sucked John’s cock back into his mouth, hard.

John buckled again, pushing at Sherlock’s head. “Ah!” He chucked, “Sensitive.”

Sherlock pushed back to sit on his heels. He swiped at his lips, licked his fingertips, and hummed.

“So smug.” John slow-blinked, clearly riding the hormone high of his orgasm.

Sherlock smiled at him, looked down at his fully hard cock, looked back at John and raised one perfect eyebrow.

“So fucking sexy,” said John, “Look at you.” Lazily, he rubbed his toes up Sherlock’s taut thigh and along the length of his cock. Sherlock thrust his hip forward, seeking more friction, as he dropped his head back. John stroked firmer along his shaft, clumsily pushing the head of his cock into his belly and massaging in small circles. Sherlock gasped, jerking his head back up. He grabbed at John’s foot and stilled it.

“You have sand on your feet,” he grinned.

John laughed. “Not into gritty footjobs then, sweetheart?”

Sherlock lowered his chin and looked at from under his lashes. “No, John.”

John pulled his foot from Sherlock’s grasp and placed it back on the duvet. “What do you want then?”

He hoped to entice John to use more than his foot. With one slow hand, he reached under his balls and massaged. After a few light circles he stoked over his balls and finally took himself in hand. “I want,” he said, stroking faster, “you to hurry up.”

John lunged at him, batting his hand away. He grabbed under both of Sherlock’s knees and tugged hard. Sherlock splayed out on his back with a groan. _Fuck yes._ He opened his legs as wide as he could. John pushed up to sink both hands into Sherlock’s hair and pull. He gasped. “F-fuck,” he stuttered out. John went for his throat once more. Sherlock felt the soft tickle of John’s chest hair, his soft cock on his belly, his strong thigh nudged up just under his balls, pressing hard. Held down, pinned by pulled hair, rough bites at his neck, and hard thighs. His mind buzzed with arousal, the taste of John in his throat, the salt-sea air filling his gulping lungs. Surrender. He raised his arms above his head, giving in, knowing John would take care of him.

John seemed to sense the change and growled into his neck. “God, the taste of you.” Sherlock moaned. John moved his hands and mouth down his body, biting hard at each nipple. Sherlock gasped at each pinch, suck, and bite. John licked down the length of his cock, until he nudged his nose under his balls. He swiped his tongue along his perineum. Sherlock was afraid he might come.

“John.”

John looked up at him, his mouth open wide, sucking on his balls. _Oh god. Definitely going to come._ He rolled his eyes back and breathed in a huge gust of air.

“All right, love?”

Looking up at the ceiling - he could not look at John just then - he nodded. He heard John chuckle. _Knowing bastard._

John ran his hands over Sherlock’s hips, around underneath his bum, and down the backs of his thighs. In one quick movement, he raised Sherlock’s knees towards his own shoulders, lowered his mouth to his exposed arsehole, and licked, firm and hot.

“John!” Sherlock cried.

John pushed hard, licking like he was on a mission. He swirled his tongue, humming as if he’d never tasted anything so satisfying.

Sherlock was completely exposed, at John’s mercy. John held his thighs firm as his tongue probed and licked his sensitive flesh. He looked at his cock, pointing down at him. He wasn’t sure he’d ever been that hard. He felt John’s hands slide down to his arse and relaxed his hold, allowing Sherlock’s spine to relax. John lifted his lips from Sherlock’s body. They watched each other as John sucked on two of his fingers. He shivered in anticipation.

“All right?” John asked.

Sherlock nodded his head and watched as John lowered his face again. His slick fingers pressed gently at first, but as he continued to lick around his rim, he pushed more insistently. Sherlock slammed shut his eyes and threw back his head. His cock twitched, his balls tightened.

He hung there, tense, waiting.

He felt John’s fingers press in further. John probed in and out two or three times. At the same moment his fingers went deep enough to graze Sherlock’s prostate, he reached up and sucked Sherlock’s cock deep into his mouth.

Sherlock gasped, “Oh!”

John bobbed up once, twisting his mouth and tongue to provide maximum suction. Then he slammed his face down, choking on Sherlock’s cock and held him there. His fingers pressed hard against his prostate and that was it.

Sherlock exploded down John’s throat, coming in rapid pulses he felt echoed in his arse around John’s fingers. John held his throat open and fingers still as he writhed and moaned and pulled at John’s head.

He was dimly aware that he was probably choking John and threw his hands out to his sides. “Oh my god,” he whispered.

John pulled off and lay his head on Sherlock’s hip. He moved his fingers slowly inside Sherlock.

“Fuck, John,” he whined. Was he going to come again? “Fuck.”

He looked down at his still mostly hard cock leaking onto his belly. He looked at John, confused.

John stilled his fingers and said, “Maybe another time. I think you’ve had enough.”

Sherlock just looked at him and wondered how many more surprised John Watson had in store for him. He flopped his legs down so he was essentially starfished across their bed. John crawled up and looked at him with a small smirk. _Smug_.

“Hi.”

“Hello.”

“You all right?”

Sherlock tried to move his arm to touch John’s cheek but all he could manage was a twitch of his fingers. He closed his eyes and tried to speak. He slurred, “Y’ve broken me.”

John hummed. “Hope not. I need you.” He settled himself along Sherlock’s side, head resting on his shoulder. Finally, Sherlock managed to lift his arm and wrap it around John.

John traced his initials into the skin over Sherlock’s heart. He smiled. _His John, ever the romantic_.

Finally, the champagne, sun, salt, and sex was too much and John’s breathing turned deep and slow. With the arm not currently full of John, he lifted the duvet and covered them. He looked down into John’s upturned face and whispered, “I need you too.”

John’s eyes fluttered open and he smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading this. Thanks to those enthusiastically commenting even when you had to wait months for an update. 
> 
> Miles McMillan is *one* of the inspirations for model!Sherlock. Look up his photoshoot for Purple Magazine. You're welcome. 
> 
> Please come and say hello on Tumblr at [onesmallfamily](http://onesmallfamily.tumblr.com) and Twitter at [tinyblood221](https://twitter.com/tinyblood221).


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